


Aid and Comfort

by going rogue (onlyastoryteller)



Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017) RPF
Genre: Dubious Consent, M/M, Master/Slave, No Underage Sex, Possible non-con, These warnings apply after they are adults ONLY:, there will be angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-03
Updated: 2019-05-06
Packaged: 2019-11-08 22:00:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 18
Words: 84,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17989277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onlyastoryteller/pseuds/going%20rogue
Summary: In an alternate universe, in a society different from our own, Timmy receives a significant gift for his fourth birthday: a Helper named Armie. Armie is meant to be a constant support and companion for him throughout his life, but Timmy must ultimately learn that the aid and comfort Armie is meant to provide is not merely a one-way street.





	1. The Gift

**Author's Note:**

> I had a dream the other night, in which I dreamed an entire story from start to finish as though it were a movie. When that happens, I have no choice but to follow the muse.
> 
> There is an eventual master/slave dynamic in this story, and eventual dubcon, which may not be for some of you. It's not always for me, either, which is why my need to write this is frankly such a surprise.
> 
> The boys start very young but grow up quickly in story-time, and the "explicit" tag and the warnings don't apply until they are of age. 
> 
> This is a multi-chapter, but much shorter than my usual stories/chapters, so updating should be easier.
> 
> **For Cor Cordium fans, hang in there. I'm working on that too.**

<https://twitter.com/chalamazed/status/1108536473559728128>

On Timmy's fourth birthday, after the presents had been unwrapped and the cake was being served, there was a knock at the door. Momma looked worried, but Papa was grinning from ear to ear.

“Your final gift is here, Timmy,” he said, bouncing to his feet. He placed a hand on Momma’s shoulder and squeezed. “It'll be fine, Nicole,” he said gently.

She looked up at him and gave a small smile, but Timmy thought her eyes still looked sad. “Of course,” she said. “But I'm still going to worry.”

He leaned down and kissed her cheek, then winked at Timmy. “I’ll go and collect your surprise.”

Papa hurried from the dining room. Vanda entered from the kitchen carrying plates of sliced carrot cake topped with scoops of vanilla ice cream. She set them down in front of Momma, Timmy, and at Papa’s empty spot.

“Vanda,” murmured Momma. “Why don’t you bring one more piece.”

Vanda blinked at Momma, but then nodded. “Yes, ma’am.” She retreated to the kitchen.

Timmy wanted to dive into his cake face first — literally — but he knew he was supposed to wait for everyone to be ready to eat, so he tucked his hands under his thighs to stop from scooping up a fingerful of frosting. He heard a rumble of voices from the foyer but couldn’t understand what they were saying. Then his father’s voice raised in a question, and there was a burst of laughter. He looked over his shoulder, peering hard at the door and wishing Papa would return.

After a couple of minutes, the ice cream had started to melt, and he couldn’t resist leaning forward and taking a small lick. Momma didn’t say anything, so he took another, and then a third. He was about to go to town on it when he heard Momma clear her throat.

He sat up straight, blushing slightly. He had been caught.

Momma laughed. “Sweetie, you have ice cream on your nose,” she said. “Better wipe it off before—“

The door to the dining room opened and Timmy swiveled in his chair. Papa walked in, but he wasn’t alone. Clutching Papa’s hand was a small boy with blonde hair. His other hand was clenched in a fist at his side, and he was staring at the ground. 

Timmy looked over Papa’s shoulder. Where was his surprise? Who was this boy? Timmy didn’t recognize him from school or from the parties Momma took him to sometimes.

Papa led the boy over to Timmy and stopped. He crouched down so that he was at eye-level, and grinned. “Timmy, I’d like to you to meet Armie. Armie, this is Timmy, my son.” He tugged at Armie’s hand until Armie looked up.

Timmy looked him over. He was wearing simple dark grey trousers and a grey shirt with a collar. White sneakers were on his feet, and they were so white they looked brand new, like they had never been outside before.

But his eyes were a clear blue, and Timmy recognized the look in them. Armie was scared.  

He climbed down from his chair and stood in front of Armie. They were almost the same height.

“Hello,” said Timmy. He smiled wide, trying to show Armie that he didn’t have to be afraid. Armie simply blinked at him.

Papa chuckled. “Timmy, this is your last present. Armie is your Helper.”

His Helper? Timmy looked up at Papa in confusion.

“But Vanda is our Helper,” he said.

“Vanda is _Momma’s_ Helper,” said Papa. “But Armie is all yours. He will stay with you wherever you go and help you with whatever you need, just like Vanda helps Momma.”

Timmy looked back at the boy. Now that he was looking for it, he saw the Helper mark on Armie's left wrist, just like the one Vanda had, except that Vanda's was bigger and had more...stuff on it. Armie's was just a band of black squiggles, like a bracelet except that it was painted on his skin.

Armie was all _his_? He didn’t really know what that meant. Papa said Armie would stay with him. Would he go to school? Would he share Timmy’s room? Vanda didn’t share Momma’s room, and Vanda sometimes went out on her own to get things from the store, or stayed home with him when Momma went out.

He opened up his mouth to ask some of his questions, but before he could, Armie frowned slightly and snatched Timmy’s napkin from the table. Before Timmy knew what was happening, Armie reached out a hand and dabbed at Timmy’s nose.

Timmy jumped backwards.

“It was dirty,” said Armie softly. He held up the napkin, showing Timmy the smear of ice cream.

“Oh. Thank you,” said Timmy. He hesitated a minute, then looked up at Papa. The sight of the ice cream reminded him of something important. “Papa, can we eat the cake? The ice cream is melting.”

Papa laughed. “Of course. Armie, why don’t you sit here, next to Timmy.” He pulled one of the dining chairs closer.

Armie didn’t move right away. Instead, he waited for Timmy to climb onto his own chair.

“What are you waiting for?” asked Timmy. He patted the empty chair beside him.

Armie moved instantly, taking his place beside Timmy.

As Papa settled at his own spot, Vanda returned. With a questioning look at Momma, she set a fresh plate of cake and ice cream in front of Armie.

He looked at it a moment, and then, like lightning, he swapped Timmy’s plate for his own.

“What did you do that for?” asked Timmy.

“That one is not so melty.” Armie’s voice was soft and shy, but when he looked at Timmy he gave him a small smile, finally. Timmy smiled back.

“Thank you,” he said.

“Well, boys, dig in,” said Papa. He exchanged a smile of his own with Momma. “This dessert isn’t going to eat itself.”

Timmy rolled his eyes at Papa’s silly joke. He snuck a glance at Armie, and Armie smirked at him and rolled his eyes as well. They giggled.

“See, Nicole?” said Papa, softly. “This is going to work out fine.”

Timmy decided he liked Armie. Having him as a Helper might be like having a brother. Or at least a live-in friend. He liked the idea of having a friend living right here with him. He could show Armie the jungle gym in the backyard, and take him to the river to play with the frogs. He could teach Armie how to play Go Fish, and the Paw Patrol game, and show him all of Timmy’s puzzles. They were going to have _so_ much fun.


	2. The Fall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Six years after receiving Armie as a Helper, Timmy learns just how important they are to each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was supposed to be composed of short chapters, but who am I kidding. I should know myself better than that by now.
> 
> I hope you're enjoying this and are willing to be patient to get answers to your questions about exactly how all of this Helper business works. I promise you I know, and it will all be revealed. Much of it in the next chapter. For now, you know what Timmy knows, which is just the basics. ;)

[Chalamazed](https://twitter.com/chalamazed/status/1108536473559728128)

_Six Years Later_

There was a large sycamore tree outside Timmy’s bedroom window. It had been there for a hundred years...at least, that’s the story Timmy told Armie one afternoon.

“A hundred years?” asked Armie, frowning up at the tree. “It’s big; but I don’t think it’s a hundred years old. Your house was built fifteen years ago, and it was probably planted when—“

“A hundred _years,_ maybe two,” Timmy insisted, pushing lightly at Armie’s chest. _Play along_ , he meant. Armie blinked at him and then smiled. _Okay,_ was the silent reply.

Timmy grinned and then forced himself to be pretend serious again. He began to circle the tree with slow, deliberate steps, beckoning for Armie to follow.

“Long ago, before this area was filled with houses and cars and swimming pools, it was just...land.” Timmy reached out and laid his fingers on the bark, trailing them over the rough surface as he walked. “Fields as far as the eye could see, patches of wood, small ponds. But this tree was special.”

Armie placed his fingers on the tree’s trunk beside Timmy’s, following the path he was marking on the uneven plane. He picked up the fantasy by silent agreement. “Even then, when this tree was young,” he said, “people could feel its magic. Like a magnet, it pulled in people who were feeling lost.”

“Not just _lost_ lost,” said Timmy. “But like...confused or trying to make decisions that were hard.”

“Lost as a metaphor,” said Armie. “Remember, that’s the thing where—“

“—you talk about something like it’s something else to make a point,” said Timmy. “I remember.”

Armie beamed, and Timmy ducked his head. He loved it when Armie was proud of him, especially for remembering things Armie taught him. Armie was really smart, smarter than Timmy about some things. Even though he didn’t go to school, and even though Helpers were not supposed to be smart, Armie learned fast just by reading. Timmy felt like he had to work hard to keep up, and that _also_ made him proud, of Armie. His Helper was the smartest Helper who ever existed.

“So people would come to this tree looking for answers,” said Armie. He stopped walking and looked up into its lush branches. “They’d ask it questions and then wait for the answer to come to them.”

“And there was a rumor that, the higher they climbed, the clearer the answer would be.” Timmy looked up as well. “Let’s climb it.”

Armie stepped back. “I don’t think so,” he said. “You know we aren’t supposed to.”

Armie was right; Momma had told him not to climb their trees. She was worried or something. But _this_ tree had plenty of strong branches and lots of places to put your feet and hands.

“Someday,” said Timmy, “I’ll need to know how to climb down and up this one. I have to practice.”

“Why?” Armie frowned.

“So I can sneak in and out. You have to practice too, because you’ll be coming with me.”

Armie rolled his eyes. “And what exactly are we planning to sneak in and out for?”

Timmy shrugged. “I don’t know, but I’m sure there’ll be some reason.”

“Timmy…”

“Come _on,_ ” said Timmy, hating the way his voice was going high-pitched. He deliberately lowered it. “Don’t you think it would be fun?”

“No, I think it’s dangerous. That’s why it’s against the rules.” Armie folded his arms across his chest.  “You could get hurt.”

Timmy groaned. “You’re so... _safe_ ,” he grumbled. Then he stepped forward, grabbed Armie’s shoulders, and squeezed. “Armie, sometimes a little danger is worth it. So is breaking a rule, especially if the rule is stupid.”

Armie looked so scandalized that Timmy laughed. “Rules are there to protect you,” Armie said.

“Sure, maybe. But sometimes...sometimes they’re not. They might be there to just make things easier for the person that made them, like when my teacher wants us to put our names in the upper left corner of the paper and nowhere else.” He paused, and when he could tell Armie was mulling that over, he jumped on the weakness and continued. “And even if they _are_ there to protect me, shouldn’t I be able to make my own decisions? To take my own risks? I won’t have parents to watch out for me forever.” Armie frowned, but he was caving, Timmy could tell.

“You have _me_ ,” said Armie. “ _I_ watch out for you. Forever. And I think it’s too risky.”

Timmy stepped back, and they eyed each other. Armie had recently outgrown Timmy by a couple of inches, so Timmy had to look up at him slightly. He had also grown... _bigger_ in general. His shoulders and arms and everything was bigger, while Timmy was still skinny and narrow. It frustrated him sometimes, but most of the time it made him feel good to know that his Helper was so strong. When Armie was by his side, he never worried about anything.

What could he say to get Armie to climb this tree with him? This stupid tree, that was begging to be climbed? It almost wasn’t about the tree anymore. It was about Timmy wanting Armie to do something fun — and a little dangerous, okay — with him.

“Listen,” said Timmy, “you...you have to do what I say, right?”

Armie’s arms dropped to his sides, and he sort of...deflated a bit. “Yes.”

“So if I tell you to climb the tree you have to do it.”

Armie chewed on his lower lip and looked up at the tree. Then he straightened his spine and met Timmy’s gaze squarely.

“Are you ordering me to climb?” he asked quietly.

Timmy’s stomach clenched. He had never really ordered Armie to do _anything._ He'd never had to. Armie had always just...done what Timmy needed or wanted without having to even be asked. And this wasn't that important. It was just a stupid tree.

He felt the moment hanging in suspension, as if balanced on the tip of the peak. Timmy knew that what he said next would determine whether it slid easily down the gentle, grassy slope or tumbled headfirst into the jagged rocks.

He smiled. “Of course not,” he said lightly, trying to make it seem like it had been a joke. “But I'm going to climb. So you have three choices: run and tell on me, stand down here like a big loser and miss all the fun, or climb with me and learn the secrets of the universe.” He poked at Armie’s chest to punctuate each choice, wiggling his eyebrows.

“You forgot a choice,” said Armie. “I could go inside and read a book.”

Timmy paused, the smile falling from his face. “You’d leave me?” he asked. Armie was always by his side, _always_ , except when he was at school. Helpers weren’t allowed at school. It wasn’t fair that only a couple of kids had them, and Helpers couldn’t learn _for_ you, after all. So every day, he left Armie behind. But when he came home, Armie was always waiting for him, grinning, ready for whatever Timmy wanted or needed to do.

After another charged beat, Armie sighed. “No. Climb if you’re going to climb.”

“And you’ll be right behind me?”

He rolled his eyes. “You know I will be.” Then he bent over and laced his fingers together. “Step on my hands, I’ll boost you up.”

Within minutes, both boys were perched in the upper branches of the sycamore. Timmy was breathing hard, but Armie seemed like he had just floated up there without exerting any energy at all.

“Happy?” asked Armie, watching Timmy with a smile.

“Yeah,” he said. He looked out over their yard, then turned so he could see into his bedroom. The branch he was on was the one that curved close to the window. He thought it was probably close enough to get in. “I’m going to see if I can touch the window,” he said, already crawling out towards the end of the branch.

“Wait—”

Armie’s caution came a second too late. Timmy heard a frightening crack, and then felt the sickening sensation of falling.

But then something collided into him, and there were arms wrapped around him. He felt himself twisting through the air, and then a thud as he crashed onto his side, and he couldn’t breathe.

Everything about the next few seconds was focused on trying to draw breath into his lungs, fighting against the intense pain in his chest. Then, through the haze of the panic and the numbness in his limbs, he heard an accompanying wheeze, and what sounded like a sob, and _that_ got him moving.

He ignored the tingling in his arms and legs and rolled over onto his hands and knees...and _off_ of what he had landed on, which was Armie.

His Helper immediately rolled the other way, clutching at his left arm.

“Armie,” Timmy said, crawling closer. He reached out and put a hand on Armie’s left shoulder.

Armie let out a whimper, and then drew a shaky breath. “Are you okay?” Armie asked, his voice thin and strained.

“Am I...yes. I’m okay,” Timmy said. “But you—”

“I’m fine,” said Armie. “I’m okay. I just need a second.”

“Armie…” Timmy — his limbs working fine, now, as adrenaline coursed through him — scooted around so he could get a better look. Armie was cradling his left arm against his chest, and breathing slowly and deliberately through his nose as he clenched and unclenched his jaw.

Timmy reached out and smoothed Armie’s shaggy blonde hair off of his forehead so he could see his face better.

“You’re not okay,” he whispered. “You — did you land on your arm?”

Armie nodded, his eyes still squeezed shut.

Timmy swallowed back a wave of nausea. Armie was really _hurt_ , no matter what he said. “Can you...just stay here a minute?” he asked. He patted Armie’s hip gently. “I’m going to get Momma.”

Armie opened his eyes and struggled to sit up. “I can walk inside,” he said.

“No.” Timmy pushed Armie back down. “Just lay here a minute. _Please._ ”

After a moment, Armie nodded, and then closed his eyes again. Timmy gave Armie one last pat, and then jumped up and ran towards the house.

He charged through the back door, letting it hit the wall with a bang.

“Momma! Vanda!” he called, bursting through the pantry and into the kitchen.  

The two women were seated at the breakfast table, heads tilted together as if they were sharing secrets, steaming cups of tea cradled in their hands. They looked up as one when Timmy made his entrance.

“Momma, Armie is hurt,” he said, gulping in a breath. “He needs your help. Or Vanda’s.”

Momma stood up immediately, placing a hand on Vanda’s shoulder. “What happened?” she asked. “Where is he?”

“Out back,” said Timmy. “He...fell. And I think he hurt his arm.”

“Okay,” she said. “Vanda, you stay here. Drink your tea, I’ll handle this.”

Vanda nodded and closed her eyes.

Timmy grabbed Momma’s hand and dragged her back out through the pantry. He skidded to a halt when he saw that Armie was there, standing just inside the back door. He dropped Momma’s hand and ran to Armie.

“What are you doing?” he asked. “I told you to stay still, I was coming with help.”

“I’m okay,” said Armie. “You don’t have to bother your mother.”

Timmy shook his head. Armie didn’t look okay. His normally tanned skin was pale and shone with a film of sweat. He was holding his left arm against his chest with his right arm, and he was swaying back and forth a little. Timmy’s heart beat a little faster, and he reached out to grip Armie’s left shoulder to help steady him in case he started to fall.

Armie cringed at the sudden movement and went even paler.

“Armie, you’re _not_ okay,” said Timmy. “Your arm—”

“It doesn’t even hurt that much anymore,” said Armie. “It’s probably just a little bruised. You don’t have to make a big deal.”

“All right,” said Momma gently, swooping in from the side and putting a hand on Armie’s back. “Why don’t you come into the living room and sit down, and let me take a look?”

Armie let Momma nudge him into the living room, but he continued to protest. “I haven’t taken my shoes off,” he said.

“It doesn’t matter,” Timmy cried. He could feel tears collecting in the corners of his eyes, and he swiped at them impatiently. “Just let Momma _look_.”

It was _his fault_. His fault that Armie was hurt. If he hadn't insisted on climbing the tree, and hadn't been stupid and crawled too far out on the branch...Timmy felt like he might be about to throw up.

Once Armie was seated on the sofa, Momma took his arm and gently pulled it way from his chest. He made a whimpering noise, and then he smashed his lips together and turned his head to the side, squeezing his eyes shut.

Momma poked at his arm, and then his wrist, and moved it slightly. Armie gasped and then tucked his chin into his shoulder. Timmy sat down next to Armie and leaned over, resting his forehead against Armie’s. He was afraid to touch him in any other way, because he didn’t want to hurt him any further.

“Hmmm,” said Momma. “I think it’s probably just a bad sprain, but we should get it checked out anyway. Get an x-ray, make sure it isn’t broken.”

 _Broken?_ Timmy rubbed his forehead back and forth against Armie’s, trying hard not to cry. _Broken._

“Armie, you hang out here a minute,” Momma said. “I’m going to grab my things, then I’ll take you to the doctor. Timmy, can I speak with you?”

Timmy reluctantly left Armie on the sofa and followed Momma into the foyer.

“I'm sorry,” he blurted out, as soon as they had left the living room. “It's not Armie’s fault—”

“I'm sure it's not,” said Momma, raising an eyebrow. “But we can talk about that later. I want you to stay here while I take Armie in to the Helper Clinic.”

 _No way._ Timmy wasn't going to leave Armie, not when it was his fault Armie was hurt.

“No,” he said. “I want to come. Armie needs—”

“He needs you to stay here so that he doesn't have to worry about you,” said Momma. “Did you notice how he wouldn't admit he was hurt? He doesn't want you to worry. If you come with us he might not be honest with the doctor. And the doctor won't be able to help him.”

Timmy bit his lip. Momma did have a point. Armie never wanted him to worry.

“Besides,” said Momma, “I need you to get things ready for when we get back. Make sure Armie’s bed is neat and his pillows are fluffed, get him some of his favorite books to read. Maybe you could move your television from your room into his, so that he has things to do while he rests.”

Timmy nodded. “I can do that,” he said.

“That's my boy,” said Momma, giving him a fierce hug. “Armie will need you to take care of him until he's better. Like I take care of Vanda when she's not feeling well.”

Timmy frowned. He _wanted_ to take care of Armie. But…

“Isn't Armie supposed to take care of me?” he asked.

“Usually,” said Momma. “He is your Helper, and he's here to make things easier for you. But he's also _yours._ He’s dependent on you for all the things he can't get for himself because of his Helper status, and that means you’re responsible for him. So you need to make sure he's comfortable and happy.”

Timmy considered that. He wanted Armie to be happy. And he liked the idea of being responsible for Armie just the same way Armie watched out for him. It made him feel good inside.

He nodded fiercely. “I will. I can do that.”

“I know you can,” said Momma. She reached out and ruffled his hair with a smile. “And we’ll talk about exactly _how_ this happened later, and how you're not ever going to do that again.”

Timmy blushed. "It was my fault,” he whispered. "Armie tried to get me not to climb the tree, and then when I fell, he—”

“He did exactly what he was supposed to do,” said Momma. She wrapped her arms around him and gave him a tight squeeze. “He’ll be fine. Don't make yourself sick over it.”

Timmy sniffed into her shoulder and and then stepped back. He watched as she went to retrieve her bag and her shoes from the foyer closet, and then darted back into the living room.

Armie was hunched over, rocking back and forth slightly. Timmy sat gingerly beside him, and he looked up, blinking. Timmy could tell he was in pain, and had to curl his hands into fists to resist reaching out and hugging his Helper.

“Momma’s going to take you to the clinic,” Timmy said. “She needs me to stay here because...Vanda has a headache.” It was a good fib. Vanda did get headaches every once in a while, and usually drank tea when that happened, so it might not even be a fib at all.

Armie looked even more distressed, and Timmy simply had to touch him. He laid his hand on Armie’s knee.

“Unless you want me to come,” he said. “I’ll come if you want me to come, no matter what Momma says.”

Armie hesitated, and then shook his head. “No,” he said. “Stay here.”

“I’ll be here when you get back and I bet I can beat you at War,” said Timmy, forcing a smile onto his face as he referred to their favorite card game. “No way will you be faster than me with a gimpy arm.”

“I’ll always be faster than you,” said Armie, with a weak laugh. “I have to be, so that you keep trying to be better.”

“We’ll see about that,” said Timmy. He swallowed hard when Armie closed his eyes and began breathing deeply again. “It’s going to be fine,” he said.

Momma came back then, carrying her purse and car keys. “Let’s go,” she said. “Timmy, I’ll give you a call if we’re going to be longer than a couple of hours—”

“A couple of _hours_?” Timmy blurted out. Then he bit his lip, regretting the panic in his voice. “Okay,” he said. “That’s fine.”

Momma smiled at him and winked. “It’ll probably be quick, but it depends on the wait. Armie, you okay to walk, honey?”

Armie stood up on shaky legs, and then nodded. “I’m okay,” he said.

She put a reassuring hand on his back and led him out the front door.

“Bye,” called Timmy. “Good luck.”

Once he heard the front door close, Timmy dashed up the stairs. He had an idea, and he needed time to make it work.

He had a big bedroom at one end of the upstairs hall. It had two twin beds, a big closet that was only half full of this things, a dresser, two bookshelves, and an area in the corner with two beanbag chairs, his television, and video game consoles.

Next to his room was Armie’s room. It was smaller, just big enough for Armie’s bed and dresser, with a small closet and a little room to move around. Armie had lived there ever since Timmy’s fourth birthday. Timmy liked having him close.

But if he was going to look out for Armie while he was getting better, Timmy wanted him closer.

He set to work. First, he picked up his room. It wasn’t in bad shape. Armie usually helped him keep it clean, but Momma had been very clear with them both that it wasn’t Armie’s job to just clean up after Timmy, and that Timmy needed to learn how to deal with his own messes. He put away some clean clothes that were in a pile in front of the dresser and straightened up his bookshelves. He pushed his dresser closer to the wall. Then he went into his closet and neatened it up so that his things were mostly on one side of the space.

Next, he went into Armie’s room and looked around. Armie didn’t have much in comparison to Timmy. He had a few things hanging in his closet and a few pairs of shoes, and some books and notebooks. Timmy gathered them up and transferred them to his room. Then he pulled Armie’s drawers out of the dresser and set them on his bed. He had seen Papa do this once, and knew that it would be too hard to move the dresser with the drawers in it.

With difficulty, Timmy managed to shoved the empty dresser out of Armie’s room and into Timmy’s. He pushed it so that it lined up with Timmy’s, then lugged the drawers in and put them back in place.

Next, he checked on the extra bed in his room. No one had ever slept in it, but it was made up just in case. He straightened the sheets and then, on second thought, went into Armie’s room and grabbed his pillows, adding them to the extra bed. Armie could use the extra pillows. Maybe he would need to prop up his arm on one or something.

Timmy scrambled down the stairs and into Papa’s library. He searched over the bookshelves until he found Armie’s two favorite books and brought them up to put them on the nightstand next to the extra bed. He set his deck of cards on top of them. Then he turned on the television, poked around in the streaming system, and queued up three movies that he knew Armie liked.

There.

Timmy was making sure he hadn’t left anything in Armie’s room when he heard Momma’s car pull in. He whirled and ran down the stairs to the front door, flinging it open and dashing outside.

Momma was opening the passenger door and Armie was emerging from the car. Timmy made himself stand in one spot, but couldn’t help bouncing up and down and craning his neck to see past Momma. Was Armie all right?

Then Momma moved aside and he could see Armie. His Helper looked mostly okay, was laughing at something Momma was saying. He was wearing a black sling that kept his left arm close to his chest, and Timmy thought he could see that the arm was wrapped in something. Was it broken, then?

Armie looked up and saw Timmy, and beamed. He waved with his right arm, and Timmy waved back, finally releasing himself to go to his Helper.

“You’re back!” he said. “Is it...is it broken?”

“Nope.” Armie shook his head. “Just sprained, like Momma said.”

“He still has to be very careful with it for the next couple of weeks,” said Momma, a note of caution in her voice. “Timmy, Armie and I have talked about this, but he’s stubborn. You need to make sure he doesn’t try to do things with his arm — even if he wants to — before the doctor says it’s okay.”

“You hear that?” said Timmy, shaking a finger at Armie. “Don’t fight me on this.”

Armie rolled his eyes. “Fine. For now.”

They went inside, and Momma asked if they were hungry. Timmy said yes and Armie agreed.

“I’ll make you sandwiches. Timmy, why don’t you help Armie get settled in his room, and I’ll bring them up in a few minutes.”

“Come on,” said Timmy. He gently took Armie’s right hand and led him up the stairs. At the top of the stairs, Timmy tugged Armie to the left towards his room. Armie followed, but threw a glance over his shoulder.

“Where are we going?” he asked.

“Your room,” said Timmy.

They reached the door to Timmy’s room, and Armie hesitated. Suddenly, Timmy felt nervous, his stomach tightening in anticipation. He wondered if he had done the right thing, or if Armie would be mad or upset that Timmy moved his room.

Well...if Armie wanted his room back, he could have it, Timmy thought. This was temporary anyway, so that Timmy could watch over him until he was better. After that, if Armie wanted his own space again...that was fine.

He pulled Armie inside and watched anxiously as Armie took in the sight of his dresser. He looked at Timmy, his brows furrowed.

“If you don’t want this,” said Timmy, “just say so. But I wanted to be able to watch out for you until you were better. I can move everything back right now if you want, or in a couple of weeks, or whatever.”

Armie frowned. “You...want me to stay in here?” he asked. “With you?”

“Yeah, but...only if you want to. Seriously if this is stupid, I can put it all back. It won’t take long—”

“Leave it,” said Armie.

“Leave it?”

“Yes. Leave it.” Armie smiled, and Timmy grinned back, relieved.

“Then...that’s your bed. Why don’t you...get comfortable. I brought some books and the cards, and have some movies we could watch…” Timmy trailed off as Armie crossed to the bed. He watched as Armie silently trailed the fingers of his right hand over the books, and then looked back at him.

“You’re the best, Timmy,” he said. “Thanks.”

Timmy was across the room in a second, wrapping his arms around his Helper, forgetting about treating him gently.

“I’m sorry. I’m so so sorry,” he whispered, his face buried in Armie’s neck.

Armie didn’t flinch or pull away. Timmy felt Armie’s right arm wrap around him and squeeze back. “What are you sorry about?” he asked.

“This is my fault,” said Timmy. “I shouldn't have — you were right. It was dangerous.”

“I _am_ always right,” said Armie.

Timmy pulled back to see the glint of amusement in Armie’s eyes, and sighed. “You are, darn it.” he said. “I guess I should just do whatever you say from now on.”

Armie shrugged. “If that’s what makes you happy,” he said. “Let’s start with this. I think we should veg out and watch—”

Timmy named one of the movies he had queued up, and Armie blinked in surprise.

“Yes,” he said. “Exactly. How did you know?”

“Because,” said Timmy, “you’re my best friend. I _know_ you. Like you know me.”

"But I'm just your Helper," said Armie with a frown. "I'm not your friend."

"No," said Timmy fiercely. "No way. You're more than  _that_."

“Yeah?” said Armie. “And I’m...your _best_  friend?"

Timmy hadn’t really thought about it like that before. He had other friends, kids from school that he hung out with. He even went to their houses sometimes. But the main person he always wanted to be around was Armie. Timmy nodded.

“Of course you are,” he said. “Am I yours?”

“ _Yes,_ ” said Armie. "Timmy, you must know already. You're my whole...you're _everything_."

Timmy felt happier in that moment than he maybe ever had before. He wouldn’t need to climb a stupid tree to touch the sky. He could just float.


	3. The Birthday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“So,” he began, “we have a birthday coming up.”_
> 
>  
> 
> _Timmy grinned. Armie’s sixteenth birthday was in exactly a week, and Timmy was stupidly excited about it. It would mean that Armie could get a driver’s license — with Momma and Papa’s permission — and they’d be able to go wherever they wanted whenever they wanted, which was key since Timmy wouldn’t turn sixteen until the end of December. Maybe that’s what this was about; Papa wanted to talk to them about Armie getting driving lessons and going through the somewhat absurdly difficult process of licensing a Helper._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is burning a hole in my soul at the moment and there's a chance it might eat me alive if I don't share it with you.
> 
> Love you all, and...please heed the tags.

__

_[Chalamazed](https://twitter.com/chalamazed/status/1108536473559728128) _

_Six Years Later — August_

Timmy felt like his lungs were about to disintegrate. There was no way he could be getting enough oxygen with the way he was struggling to breathe. His legs were moving, but he couldn’t really feel them any longer, just the vibrations whenever his feet hit the gravel. He wasn’t going to make it.

“Armie — I can’t — I have to —” he gasped.

“Don’t you _dare_ stop, fucker. _Move_ it.”

Armie’s voice was close. Too close. In his lack-of-oxygen haze, he had somehow missed the fact that a second pair of sneakers was pounding right behind his. If he faltered even a tiny bit, slowed down a smidge, staggered for a moment, he’d bring not only himself down, but Armie too. The guy was so close he’d trip right over Timmy and land on top of him.

An lungful of breath Timmy didn’t know he had burst out of him at the thought, and he began to see stars on the edge of his vision.

“Come on, Timmy,” said Armie, so close Timmy could almost imagine he felt Armie’s breath on his neck. “Come _on._ You can make it. You’re nearly there, look up. Look _up._ ”

Timmy blinked as he followed Armie’s instructions. He was right. Their house was close — only another fifty or so yards. He could make fifty yards. He tucked his elbows close to his ribs and gritted his teeth, digging as deep as he could. He ignored the screams from his muscles and the ache in his chest and — somehow — sped up.

“Go, go, go,” chanted Armie, who was keeping pace.

 _Go, go, go._ It echoed in Timmy’s head as he kept an eye on his goal. Almost there...just a few more steps…

His foot crossed over the curb and up onto the grass of his yard. He made it three more strides and then collapsed, letting his legs crumble underneath him. He rolled onto his back and focused on breathing. He’d worry about the feeling in his limbs later.

A solid mass collapsed next to him, and a leaden object landed across his stomach, causing what little breath he had managed to regain to explode out of him. The object moved, and he felt Armie’s large hand spread across his stomach, rising and falling in time with Timmy’s erratic gasping.

“You with me?” asked Armie, out of breath himself. “Or did I kill you this time?”

Timmy tried to answer, but all that came out was a wheeze. Armie’s hand left his stomach, and suddenly Armie’s face was in his.

“Breathe,” he murmured, his other hand landing softly on Timmy’s chest.. “Slowly. Don’t try to take it all in at once.”

He began to count, and Timmy found himself breathing in time with Armie’s counting. After a couple of minutes, he felt like he was human again, and Armie smiled.

“Better?” he asked.

Timmy nodded. Armie sat up, and Timmy pushed himself up on his elbows. “Fuck, that was—”

“Your best time yet,” said Armie. He grinned. “You’re down to a five-minute mile.”

“Really?” Timmy grinned back. Then he sighed as he had a realization. “But if _that’s_ what five minutes feels like...how the hell am I going to make it to _four_?”

He needed to be running a four-minute mile if he had any hope at all of making the track team this year. Maybe it was a stupid idea, but as soon as he had mentioned maybe wanting to do it, Armie had switched into trainer mode and had been kicking his ass up and down the neighborhood all summer.

It had worked, so far. But the summer was almost over.

Armie swatted his arm. “You will. We have two weeks until tryouts. You can get there if you don’t give up."

Timmy nodded, and Armie winked at him. He bounced to his feet. Where he got all that energy after basically sprinting for an hour was something Timmy would never understand. It must be the muscles. Armie’s legs were all sleek, hard muscle, while Timmy’s were still basically knobby twigs, even after all their hard work. Overall, despite Tim's best efforts in all areas, Armie continued to outgrow him. He was now over six feet to Timmy's five-foot-eight.

Armie reached down a hand. “Come on. You must be hungry. Let’s get some fuel.”

Timmy dragged his eyes away from Armie’s calves and grabbed his hand, letting himself be pulled to his feet. He shook out his limbs, which were feeling like jelly.

Armie smirked. “Race you to the kitchen,” he said. Then he smacked Timmy on the ass and took off.

“What the fuck — not fair, you asshole,” shouted Timmy, but he took off in pursuit, laughing.

Armie was _fast_ , though, and disappeared into the house before Timmy was even close to the front door. He yanked it open and charged inside, but had only made it two steps into the foyer before something collided with him from the side.

He staggered into the living room. “Armie—” he gasped, as he felt his Helper’s fingers digging into his ribs. He laughed helplessly, doubling over, but Armie didn’t let up.

Timmy lurched towards the sofa, trying to escape tickling hands, and tumbled over its arm, landing on the cushions. Armie landed on top of him, snickering, and Timmy was now out of breath for an entirely different reason. He grabbed and pushed at Armie’s hands until Armie finally took mercy on him and stopped.

He didn’t otherwise move, however, and they lay across the sofa, tangled legs dangling over the arm, catching their breath.

Someone cleared their throat, and Armie finally lifted off of him. Timmy struggled to disentangle his legs from Armie’s, shoving against his sweaty chest, and after a moment of awkward movement they were upright once more, grinning sheepishly at Papa, who was leaning against the archway from the foyer. He rolled his eyes, but he was smiling.

“What did we manage today?” he asked.

“Five minutes,” said Armie. “But only because I ran behind him yelling at him the whole time.”

“Come on,” said Timmy, elbowing him. “I fucking ran it, didn’t I?”

“Language,” cautioned Papa. He was still smiling, but then the smile dropped off his face and he frowned. “Could I talk to you both for a minute?”

“Of course,” said Armie. Timmy nodded.

Papa sighed and beckoned for them to follow him. Timmy exchanged a glance with Armie. What did Papa want to speak with them about that sounded so...serious? He started after his father, who was headed for his study in the rear of the house. Armie was behind him, and he took comfort in that. If they were going to get in trouble for something, at least he wasn’t alone.

In general, that was his main thought about his life. No matter how much he fucked it up, at least he wasn’t alone. He glanced over his shoulder and grinned at Armie.

“What’s up do you think?” Armie whispered.

Timmy shrugged. “No idea.”

Once in Papa’s study, they sat on the leather sofa against the wall, while Papa rummaged around the papers on his desk. He seemed to find what he was looking for, and came to join them, taking up his place in the armchair to the right of the coffee table.

“So,” he began, “we have a birthday coming up.”

Timmy grinned. Armie’s sixteenth birthday was in exactly a week, and Timmy was stupidly excited about it. It would mean that Armie could get a driver’s license — with Momma and Papa’s permission — and they’d be able to go wherever they wanted whenever they wanted, which was key since Timmy wouldn’t turn sixteen until the end of December. Maybe that’s what this was about; Papa wanted to talk to them about Armie getting driving lessons and going through the somewhat absurdly difficult process of licensing a Helper.

Armie shifted in his seat. “Yes,” he said. “On the twenty-eighth.”

“Wait until you see what I’m planning,” said Timmy, sneaking a look at his Helper. He was going all out this year, and he couldn’t wait to see Armie’s face when he saw what Timmy had gotten him. He was spoiling Armie, that’s what Momma had said, but he didn’t care.

“Timmy,” said Armie. “I told you, you shouldn’t—”

“Boys,” said Papa sharply.

Their gazes snapped up.

“Sorry,” said Timmy.

Papa sighed. That was the second time in less than five minutes. Maybe this wasn’t about driving after all. Timmy felt his stomach tighten. What was Papa about to tell them?

He looked them both over for a moment, and then focused on Armie. “Next week, when you turn sixteen, you’ll be sent for Helper training.”

 _Training?_ Timmy tried to make sense of what Papa had said.

“Did I...am I doing something wrong?” asked Armie softly. “If you tell me, I can fix it.”

“You’re not doing anything wrong,” said Timmy firmly. “Papa, he doesn’t need training. He—”

“It’s not our choice,” said Papa. “Armie, Timmy is right. You haven’t done anything wrong. You’ve been perfect. Which is why we haven’t sent you before now. The truth is, most Helpers go for training multiple times during their childhood. But you...you didn’t seem to need it, and so we didn’t see any reason to send you.”

“What’s different now?” asked Timmy. He reached out and grabbed Armie’s hand. He could sense the way Armie’s body was tensing up, and he wanted to ease it in some way.

“Training upon a Helper’s sixteenth birthday is mandatory,” said Papa. “There’s no way around it.”

He unfolded the piece of paper he had retrieved from his desk and held it out for the boys to see. It was a very official-looking document with an embossed seal in the corner. Timmy ran his eyes over the text. It said, in a lengthier, more frightening tone, exactly what Papa had conveyed. The government was going to pick up Armie next Thursday and take him for adolescent training. It was required. Any attempt to avoid it could result in a number of civil and criminal penalties as well as forfeiture of the Helper.

Timmy felt a coldness snake its way down his spine at one line in particular.

“Three months?” he whispered. “They’re taking Armie for _three months_?”

Papa nodded and took the paper back. “It could be longer,” he warned. “Three months is minimum. But since Armie is already perfect—” he smiled at Armie gently, “— we can hope that three months is all it will be, and you’ll be right back home where you belong.”

Armie nodded. “I understand,” he said.

“Good,” said Papa. “Don’t worry, boys. It’ll go by fast.” He stood and patted Armie on the shoulder, then left the room, giving them some space to digest the bomb he had just served up.

Timmy was shaking his head, and he felt the heat and prickling at the corners of his eyes that meant he was about to cry. He swallowed quickly, trying to hold it back. Armie was taking this so well, _Timmy_ couldn’t be the one to fall apart.

But he felt like he might not be able to help it. He was losing his Helper for three whole months. Just as he was starting his junior year of high school, maybe _the_ most important year of his high school career. He needed Armie. He needed him to help him make the track team and pass AP English and not be a completely uncool dork when coolness had taken on a brand new importance.

He needed his best friend.

Armie squeezed his hand, and Timmy looked over. His Helper’s eyes were uncertain. Was Armie scared? That thought made Timmy feel like shit for thinking about what _he_ would suffer with Armie gone. He hadn’t even considered what it would be like for Armie. What was training like? What were they going to do? At least Timmy got to stay home, with his family, and go to school. Armie was headed into the unknown.

So he swallowed again and smiled. “Three months,” he scoffed. “Big deal. You can do what they want you to do in three _days_ and spend the rest of the time impressing everyone and teaching all the classes yourself.”

Armie blinked at him and then let out a laugh. “Yeah,” he said. “I _should_ be teaching the classes. After all, I got your skinny ass competition-ready in eight weeks. What other Helpers can claim _that_?”

Timmy’s smile faltered a little, and he could tell Armie was faking it too, but that was okay. They’d fake it for each other.

Fake it they did, all the way through the next six days. They continued training — Timmy got his mile down to four-and-a-half minutes — and Timmy made sure Vanda cooked all of Armie’s favorites, all the things Armie would never ask for himself but that he loved. They played video games and talked about stupid shit and what they would do once Armie got back.

“We’ll go out,” said Timmy. “To Fred’s Steakhouse. And you can order the _Monster_ and eat the whole thing and get your photo on the wall.”

“And then we can spend an entire Saturday at the movies,” said Armie. “Find a marathon of something dumb and make fun of it while you get sick on Twizzlers.”

“That was _one time_ ,” said Timmy, but he was laughing. “And it’ll be almost Christmas, so we can go out to the winter carnival and ride the free-fall seventeen times.”

“You can play that goofy shoot-the-water-in-the-clown’s-mouth game and win me a stuffed honey badger to go with the one from last year,” said Armie.

“Yeah. _Why_ are there stuffed honey badgers at a winter carnival, anyway? It makes no sense.”

“Hey, I _like_ my honey badger,” said Armie. “It reminds me of you.”

Timmy didn’t have an answer for that.

On the seventh day, Timmy tried to be cheerful as he woke Armie up by bouncing on his bed and shouting _happy birthday_ and shooting him with silly string. They had pancakes for breakfast and wore silly hats and sang the birthday song.

Momma and Papa gave Armie a suitcase with the family crest on it.

“So that everyone knows where you belong,” said Momma. Armie hugged them both.

Timmy didn’t want to give Armie his whole gift, but had decided to give him a part of it, with the promise that he’d get the rest of it when he returned. He didn’t give it to him over breakfast. Instead, he waited until after he had helped Armie pack in his new suitcase, after he had tucked the stuffed honey badger from last Christmas under Armie’s shirts, after they had crawled under both of their beds — they were still sharing a room, had been ever since they were ten — looking for Armie’s left work boot.

Just as Armie was about to close his suitcase, Timmy held out a hand. “Wait,” he said.

Armie stopped and straightened up, and Timmy grabbed a wrapped parcel from under his pillow.

“This is only part of your gift,” Timmy said. “I have the rest of it too, but...I figured you can’t take it all with you, only this part.”

Armie took the package and turned it over in his hands. “You never have to get me anything,” he said. “You know that, right?”

Timmy shrugged. “I wanted to. Just open it, okay?”

With a shy smile, Armie carefully slid his finger under the flap of the wrapping and tore it open. An old book fell into his hands. He turned it over and then looked up, his eyes wide and delighted.

“ _The Brothers Karamazov_?” he asked. “I _love_ this one.”

“I know,” said Timmy. “It’s not, like, a super special edition, or anything, but —”

Armie opened it and flipped gently through the pages. “It’s in Russian?” asked Armie, squinting at it and turning it over. “You got me _The Brothers Karamazov_ in Russian?”

“Half in Russian,” said Timmy. “The 1912 translation on one side and the original Russian on the other. I know you’ve been teaching yourself how to read it, and…”

He trailed off as Armie turned around, facing away from Timmy. He felt suddenly anxious. Had he chosen wrong? Maybe he should have just gotten Armie a new English translation, or a portable video game, or something.

Armie placed the book gently in his suitcase, nestled it between his clothes, and then flipped the case closed. He slowly pulled the zipper to seal it, then lifted the suitcase and placed it by the door to the bedroom. When he turned around again, his eyes were shining.

“I’ll read it every night,” said Armie. “And then when I get back I’ll read it _to_ you. In Russian.”

"I won't understand it," said Timmy.

"I'll read you to sleep," said Armie.

Timmy grinned, his heart soaring. Armie was happy. He had made Armie happy.

“Armie. Timmy,” Papa called out from the foyer. “The transport is pulling in.”

They stared at each other. Timmy felt his heart beating wildly. This was it. Armie was leaving him for three whole months. Suddenly, he was sure he couldn’t do this. They had never been apart for even a _night_ , and somehow he was supposed to exist for three months without Armie by his side. Was that even possible?

“Fuck, I'm going to _miss_ you,” Timmy said. He cupped a hand around the back of Armie’s neck and tugged him down so that their foreheads were touching, that point of contact that had been their go-to gesture of comfort for six years.

“I'll be back before you have a chance to miss me,” Armie said, his voice gentle. “And I expect that while I'm gone, you'll keep up with your training. I want to see you running a four minute mile when I get home.”

“I'll run it in two if it'll bring you back,” Timmy whispered.

Then, before he knew what he was doing, Timmy tilted his head up and pressed his lips lightly to Armie’s.

Armie stiffened, and Timmy pulled back immediately, feeling the flush rise to his cheeks. _What did you just do_? he scolded himself. He wished the floor would just open up and swallow him whole.

“Sorry, I'm sorry,” he stammered.”I didn't mean to—”

“Shhh.” Armie swooped in and kissed him, gently at first, and then with more urgency as Tim parted his lips and responded.

He was _kissing_ Armie.

He was kissing _Armie._

_Holy fuck._

It went on forever and was over in the blink of an eye. Armie pulled back.

“Timmy,” he whispered. “I didn't...know.”

“Neither did I,” murmured Timmy. “Or...maybe I did, but not — not completely.”

Armie laughed softly. “Fuck, now I _really_ don't want to go.”

Timmy whimpered, and then grabbed at Armie’s sleeves when Armie took a step away from him. “No,” he said.

“I have to,” said Armie. “You know I do, don’t...I can't leave if I think it's hurting you like this.”

Timmy nodded. Right. Fake it. He cleared his throat. “I’ll be fine,” he said. “And the sooner you go the sooner you come back. To me.”

Armie smiled a tender smile. “Exactly.” He stepped back again, and Timmy went to follow, intending to walk him out to the transport. “Wait,” said Armie, holding up a hand.  

“Why?”

“I want...the last thing you should remember is me kissing you,” said Armie. “I want you to close your eyes, and keep them closed until I’m gone. And I want to come right back here to find you waiting for me when I return so we can pick up where we left off.”

Timmy felt the tears gathering in his eyes, and he tried desperately to hold them at bay. He nodded. “I can do that.”

“Good,” said Armie. “Right here. In three months.”

“Right here,” repeated Timmy.

Armie surged forward and captured Timmy’s lips again, hands cupping Timmy’s jaw, thumbs swiping across Timmy’s cheeks. Timmy tried to focus on how Armie’s mouth felt against his, warm and sure, just like Armie himself. He tried to let it imprint on his senses so that he would continue to feel it the entire time Armie was gone.

But when Armie broke the kiss, all Timmy felt was cold. The chill deepened as he heard Armie’s feet thudding on the hardwood, descending the stairs. He kept his eyes closed, but that didn’t keep the tears from — finally — escaping.

He didn’t open his eyes until after he heard his parents saying goodbye, after he heard the front door close, after he imagined he heard the transport vehicle pull away.

When he did, the room was emptier than it had felt in years. Timmy suddenly felt exhausted, more tired than after running six miles at a breakneck pace. He stood in place for another minute, and then closed the door to his bedroom. He wasn’t in the mood to deal with questions from his parents, see the concern in their eyes.

Instead, he turned and stumbled over to Armie’s bed. He crawled under the covers and pulled them up to his chin, burying his face in a cloud of fabric that smelled like his best friend. He stayed there, unmoving, as the hours ticked by and the room darkened.

Just before falling asleep, he wondered what Armie was doing. Was he lying in some bed, a hundred miles away? Was he asleep, or was he awake? Was he thinking of Timmy, the way Timmy was thinking of him? As Timmy drifted off finally, he thought he heard Armie’s voice in his head.

_Right here. In three months._

“Hurry back,” he whispered, even though Armie couldn’t hear him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry. (But I did warn you.)


	4. The Return

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Armie returns home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I cannot express how touched I am at the response this story is getting. Just...you all are the best and I'm so glad I found you.
> 
> As always, my stories get away from me and start to do their own thing without permission. I had originally intended for the last chapter, this one, and, apparently, the next one to be a single chapter, but...such are the way the words appear.
> 
> Have I said yet that this is fiction? Obviously. And thank god for that.

****

**[Chalamazed](https://twitter.com/chalamazed/status/1108536473559728128) **

****_Eight-and-a-half months later — May_

Timmy read over the dense paragraph in his history text for the fourth time before giving up and slamming the book shut. He rubbed his fingers against his eyes and sat back in his chair. He couldn’t concentrate, and he _needed_ to concentrate because he simply had to do well on this exam to keep his grades high. And that, in turn, was stressing him out, which made it even more impossible to concentrate. This fucking exam was tomorrow and he fucking hated his teacher for making it on a fucking Friday. Especially _this_ fucking Friday, which meant he couldn’t skip fucking school.

He really really _really_ wanted to be able to skip school tomorrow. He sighed loudly and tipped his head way back, staring at the ceiling.

 _Don’t look at the clock_ , he told himself. _Don’t look at the clock, don’t look—_

He straightened up and glanced over his shoulder.

_Seven-thirty-two._

His stomach leapt.

It was finally happening. Finally, after waiting for word month after month, being told again and again _the Helper isn’t ready_ and _the Helper hasn’t completed the program_ and _the Helper needs further instruction_ …

Armie was coming home.

Timmy could hardly believe he had made it. He had made it through hundreds of nights in a too-quiet room, hundreds of long, lonely days, thousands of moments in which he sat paralyzed in self-doubt and indecision, when he really didn’t think it was possible for him to exist without Armie. Thinking that he had been ruined forever by having someone like Armie by his side, supporting him and cheering him on, for practically his entire life.

He heard a rattling noise, and realized that he was restlessly bouncing his leg against the side of his desk. With a grunt of impatience, he shoved his chair back and stood. He wasn’t going to be able to study anymore tonight. He’d just have to hope that he had absorbed enough about the Korean and Vietnam Wars to pass this damned test.

_You’ll be fine. You took notes, you did the homework, it’ll all come back when you need it._

Armie’s voice echoed in his head. Ever since that first night, he had never stopped hearing it. The gentle, rumbling tones, that seemed to get deeper as the months crept by, had talked Timmy through a number of difficult and stressful situations.

The only time he _hadn’t_ needed to imagine Armie’s voice was the one time that Armie had managed to call him. It was eight days after he had initially left for training, the last Friday before school started. Timmy had woken up extra early, nerves jangling, because it was the day of track team tryouts.

Despite his turbulent stomach, he had managed to force down a reasonable breakfast by reminding himself over and over that he would need fuel to pull this off. He had been hunched over in the foyer, lacing up his running shoes and giving himself the best pep talk he could muster when his phone rang.

At first he ignored it, since it was interrupting the flow of his desperately positive thoughts, but then it stopped and started again, and so he pulled it out of his pocket to check. The screen indicated that the call was coming in from a blocked number.

In that moment, Timmy knew. He just _knew_ what was happening. He fumbled with the phone, trying to answer it and hold it up to his ear and say hello all at once. Finally, he managed to coordinate himself.

“Hello?” he said, practically biting his tongue in the process. “Hi, hello?’

“Timmy.” It was Armie’s voice. The sound of the real thing made the imagined versions crumble into dust in Timmy’s head. His legs gave out, and he sank to the tiles with a thud.

“Armie,” he said, his voice creaking. “I thought — I thought you couldn't call. They said—”

“I’m not supposed to be,” said Armie. “So I have to be quick.”

Timmy caught the urgency in his tone, the way he was speaking softly, just above a whisper.

“Okay,” said Timmy. “Sorry, what do you need? What can I do?”

“It’s today, right?” asked Armie. “The track team tryouts? I think it’s Friday today, right? It’s sort of hard to...but it’s today?”

“Yeah,” said Timmy. “Yes, I was just on my way out the door. Armie...I hit four minutes yesterday. Just once, but —”

“I knew it,” said Armie, his voice warm and approving, laced with a note of shared triumph that made Timmy’s skin tingle. “I knew you could. Listen, I want you to go out there today and show them everything that you can do.”

Timmy swallowed. “I will,” he said. “I promise.”

“Just imagine me running behind you. If you slow down, for a second, I’m going to trample on your heels.”

Timmy giggled. He _had_ been imagining that as he continued to train. “Okay.”

“I want you to hear my voice. Hear me yelling at you to move your fucking ass, and not to fucking give up. Just...imagine it.”

“I already do,” said Timmy. “All the time. All the — God, it’s so good to hear your voice for real. Are you all right? Is it...is it okay there?”

Armie laughed. “I’m...fine,” he said. “It’s fine. I just have to try to remember...it’s not important. You know something, Timmy? I always knew you were special. Like, really special. More than I ever deserved. But I had no fucking _idea_ —”

“Don’t say that,” said Timmy. He felt the moisture gathering in his eyes, the pressure in his sinuses building. “Don’t say it’s more than you _deserve_. It’s the other way around, I can’t believe—”

“I miss you,” said Armie suddenly. Timmy detected a faint tremor in Armie’s voice, and it started to unravel his own control.

“I miss you too,” Timmy said, “so much.” He felt his voice break and the tears hanging on the edge of his lashes, threatening to spill over. _Keep it together_ , he thought.

“Shit, I have to go,” said Armie. “I’m not sure I’ll be able to call again, so don’t, like...wait for it. If I can, I will. If I can’t...just know that I _want_ to.”

“Armie—”

“I have to go,” whispered Armie urgently. “Right now. Kick some ass, Timmy.”

The line went dead.

Timmy stared at the phone in his hand for a full ten minutes after it went dark, willing it to ring again. When it didn’t, he took a series of deep breaths, then swiped at his damp cheeks with the palm of his left hand. He pushed himself to his feet, shoved the phone in his pocket, and slowly re-tied his left sneaker.

Then he marched out the door and made the fucking track team.

He then proceeded to _continue_ to kick ass, in ways he hadn’t thought were possible. He didn’t know if it was because he felt like he had all these hours to fill, or if he was trying to make time speed up, or if it was just that he wanted Armie to be proud of him, but he put his head down, worked hard, and didn’t let up for a second.

For eight-and-a-half months, he excelled in athletics, got straight As in his honors and AP classes, played a lead roles in the theater club’s productions of “Death of a Salesman” and “Cabaret,” wrote for the school newspaper, and volunteered for Habitat for Humanity on weekends.

Sometimes Momma seemed worried about him, but she just hugged him a lot and tried to get him to eat more, and showed up to all of his track meets and performances and read all of his articles. Papa just looked prouder and prouder of him, clapping him on the back and calling him _my boy_ in this weird way that still made Timmy feel pretty good.

And now? Now...he was going to get to tell Armie about it, because his Helper — no, his best friend, his whole world — was finally coming home.

He looked at the clock again. Armie was supposed to arrive back sometime around eight, so it could be any minute. Suddenly, he felt nervous, his fingertips vibrating and his stomach flipping around.

It had been such a long time. Nearly three times as long as they had thought. What if...what if Armie walked in, took one look at him, and realized he had been crazy to ever care about Timmy?

 _No._ That was never going to happen. They were...they were _bonded_. That’s what he had heard Momma saying to Vanda one afternoon when she didn’t know he had come home early from school with a stomach ache.

Timmy looked at what he was wearing and tried to decide if it was what he wanted to be wearing when Armie walked through the door. He still had on his track clothes from practice. He thought they kind of looked good on him, made him look stronger and sleeker than maybe he actually was. He had grown a few inches, too, since Armie had left, had hit five-foot-ten. He was looking forward to being closer to looking Armie in the eye again, like he had before Armie shot up like a fucking tree trunk.

He sniffed at his shirt and decided that the track pants could stay, but the shirt had to go. He stripped it off and tossed it in the hamper, then hurried into the bathroom to wash up. His hair had grown out, too. It wasn’t long, exactly, but it was shaggier. Curlier than he usually kept it. He wet his hands and ran them through the curls, smoothing out stragglers and then shaking his head to get his hair to look like he _wasn’t_ trying to get it to look any particular way.

Back in his room, he pulled on a different track shirt. Maybe it was cheating, but this way he would be wearing his uniform — something that Armie had worked so hard to put him in — but wouldn’t smell like sweat.

He was just straightening up the room, neatening the covering on Armie’s bed and kicking a stray sock under his dresser, when he heard Papa’s voice.

“Timmy,” he called, “the transport is here.”

Timmy ran out of his room to the top of the stairs. “I’m going to wait up here,” he said.

Papa stood at the bottom of the stairs, and he wrinkled his forehead in confusion. “Why?” he asked.

“Just something...between us,” said Timmy. “Send him up, when he...he’ll understand.”

Papa nodded, and Timmy darted back into his room, closing the door behind him so that Armie would open it and they would catch sight of each other at the same time. He ran a finger lightly over the track medals he had won this year, fanned out the school newspapers that were stacked on top of Armie’s desk, and fixed the bent corner of a cast photo from Cabaret that was propped against the wall.

Then he slid into the center of the room, hoping he was as close to exactly where he had been that day eight-and-a-half months earlier.

How would it happen? Would Armie drop his suitcase at the door and just...just fucking take three steps and start kissing him? Or would he stop in the door, and they’d stand and stare awkwardly at each other for a while? When Armie was embarrassed, he blushed a deep scarlet all the way down his neck. Would Armie blush?

 _Oh._ He hoped Armie would _blush_.

He heard steps coming up the stairs and tensed. It was happening.

But then...Armie didn’t appear. Timmy waited, listening for the footsteps to get closer. Instead, they seemed to get further away.

_What was going on?_

Maybe that wasn’t Armie. Maybe it was Papa, or Momma, or Vanda, coming upstairs to get...what? Credits for the transport?

Timmy shifted his weight from one foot to the other. How long should he wait? Maybe Armie hadn’t had dinner, and Momma had taken him into the kitchen for some food. Or maybe they had some paperwork to fill out, and Armie was sitting in Papa’s office.

Then he heard a thud against the left wall, the wall that his room shared with the one next door, the one that used to be Armie’s, when they were little kids.

Timmy couldn’t take it any longer. He exploded off of his designated spot, leapt across the room, and threw open his door. He stuck his head into the hall and listened. He could hear his parents’ voices rising up from the living room, though he couldn’t understand what they were saying.

But he _definitely_ heard movement from Armie’s old room, and that’s what propelled him all the way out the door and down the hall.

When he reached the door to Armie’s old room, he paused and listened. He heard a soft cough coming from inside.

 _Armie._ Timmy didn’t realize he’d be able to recognize a cough, or that something as small as a _fucking cough_ could send his heart into his throat and his nerve endings into chaos. 

Unable to wait any longer, he stepped into the doorway and stared.

Armie was inside the room. He had his back to Timmy, and he seemed to be rummaging around in his suitcase, which was laying open on the narrow bed. The narrow, _small_ bed, since it was the one Armie had used as a kid, and they had never bothered to replace it. Their larger double beds had gone into the room they shared when they hit their teens and Armie had started to grow so fast.

Speaking of which...Timmy’s mouth went dry. Armie had filled out _so much_ while he was away. He still had a trim waist and hips, but his back and arms looked...Timmy let out an involuntary sound, and Armie straightened up. He turned around.

“Holy shit,” whispered Timmy. He looked up...and up, and up...at Armie. His Helper had to have grown at least four inches, because he now towered over Timmy in addition to looking like he could bench press six of him at once.

Not only that, but he seemed...suddenly older. His jaw was square and defined, and though it was clear it had been recently shaved close, there was a fine hint of stubble present. There was also something else different, but Timmy couldn’t quite put his finger on it.

Armie smiled slightly, and inclined his head, then stood, spine straight, hands at his sides.

“Armie,” said Timmy. He shook his head slowly. “I...you look so different.”

Armie nodded. “Yes,” he said. “I have grown, and also been working to make myself more physically able. Are you pleased?”

“Am I…” Timmy felt suddenly adrift, like he had accidentally stepped off the edge of a dock into rough waters, and was having trouble getting his footing. “You look great,” he finally said. “I grew too...just...not as much.”

“Yes, you seem taller. You must have been eating well. I’m glad.”

“You’re glad that I…” Timmy bit his lip. This wasn’t going at all like he had thought it would. Armie was so far away, and he seemed...not unhappy, but not...happy, either. Not like Timmy thought he would be acting when they were able to see each other again.

“Now that I’ve returned, I can assist you with your diet, if you’d like. I learned a lot about proper nutrition.”

“Okay, sure,” said Timmy. “But we...what are you doing in here?” he asked.

Armie looked around and frowned slightly. “I am unpacking,” he said. “It should only take a moment. I don’t have many things to unpack.”

Timmy looked at the open suitcase. It was true that there was very little in there, just a few articles of clothing.

“Hey, where’s your book?” he asked. “And...the honey badger?”

“The...I’m sorry, sir. The what?” Armie sounded thoroughly confused.

“Your things,” said Timmy impatiently. “The stuffed honey badger I put in your suitcase, and the book I gave you — _The Brothers Karamazov_.”

Armie looked at his suitcase a moment, and then back up. Something flickered in his eyes. “They were...removed,” he said.

“Removed?”

“Personal possessions beyond necessities like clothing are discouraged,” said Armie.

“But those were...I _gave_ those to you. Who took them? They shouldn’t have done that. If they didn’t want you to have them while you were in training, they should have...sent them to me, or something.” Timmy felt panic rising in his chest. Something was very, very wrong. And had Armie called him... _sir_?

Armie looked concerned. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I should have had them sent back. They weren’t really mine, they were yours, and I should have requested they be returned to you. It won’t happen again.”

“No, I don’t care about...those were _yours._ They had no right to…” Timmy rubbed his hand against his forehead. A half hour ago, he had been vibrating with excitement to see his best friend, and get himself kissed senseless in the way he had been _dreaming about_ for eight-and-a-half months, and now...now...his head snapped up.

“Hang on, back up,” he said. “Forget about the stuff. Let’s go back to...I can see that you’re unpacking. I meant, why are you unpacking in _here_? Why didn’t you come to our room?” Timmy took a step forward.

“It’s best for you to have your own space,” said Armie. “You’ll need those boundaries, as will I.”

“But I don’t _want_ —” Timmy cut himself off as soon as he heard his voice climbing higher. He couldn’t sound desperate, not until...not until he figured out what was going on. He took several more steps forward so that he could reach out and touch Armie. He grabbed Armie’s arms above the elbows and squeezed slightly, feeling a tremor travel through him at this first contact.

“Armie,” he started again, “I was waiting for you. In our room. Like we talked about.”

Armie frowned again. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to displease you in so many ways as soon as I returned. I may need to re-adjust, remember your preferences and be able to anticipate your needs. It shouldn’t take long, and I promise to pay close attention.”

Timmy swallowed. “You’re not _displeasing_ — okay. I’m not sure what you’re trying to do, but—”

Armie straightened to his full height again. “A Helper’s purpose is to provide aid and comfort for his Master, in any way the Master expresses, wishes, or needs. A Helper should anticipate his Master’s desires and meet his needs as often as possible without instruction. No task or duty is too difficult, and no request may be denied. His Master’s contentment and ease is the Helper’s sole reason for existing. Without his Master, a Helper ceases to have purpose.”

“ _What?”_ Timmy’s mouth dropped open. “What the _fuck_ did you just say?”

Armie cleared his throat and spoke a little louder. “A Helper’s purpose is to provide aid and comfort—”

“ _No._ Shut up. I heard you. But what _is_ that?” Timmy shook Armie a little, and was close to stamping his foot, which was an urge he hadn’t had in half a decade.

“ _The Helper’s Purpose_ , sir” said Armie.

“Armie…” Timmy whispered. “Why are you calling me ‘sir’?”

“It’s the proper form of address,” said Armie.

“You...you call me _Timmy_ ,” said Timmy.

Armie blinked at him. “I’m sure that was an error,” said Armie. “Brought about by lack of proper training. It has been rectified.”

Timmy let go of Armie then. He took a step backward, toward the door, and then a second, and a third, until he had crossed the threshold. Armie was gazing at him passively, waiting.

That’s when Timmy realized what he hadn’t been able to put his finger on earlier, the last thing that was different about his Helper.

Armie’s eyes were no longer a vibrant blue. Instead, they were a cold grey.

“Stay...stay here,” he managed, then turned and fled down the stairs, ignoring the _yes sir_ that chased after him. He needed to talk to Papa. He needed to know what they had done to Armie.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I'm hurting too. [Hugs.]
> 
> Just FYI: Next update won't be for a few days...my schedule is booked from morning until night. But feel free to bug me (or scream at me in distress, whatever you need) on Tumblr ;)


	5. The Turn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Timmy learns the truth about Helpers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I said it would be a few days. You all should know by now that I lie. Forgive me?
> 
> (Love you all and I am still utterly floored and forever grateful for your support.)
> 
> All fiction, thank god.

****

**[Chalamazed](https://twitter.com/chalamazed/status/1108536473559728128) **

****When Timmy reached the first floor, he found his father lounging on the sofa in the living room, a large book in his hands. He looked up when Timmy skidded to a halt in the archway.

“Timmy?” he said, immediately concerned. He set his book aside and sat up.

“Papa, something is wrong with Armie,” said Timmy. “He’s not...he’s acting like he barely knows me, and...something is wrong. Something must have gone wrong while he was away.”

Papa’s face fell, and he sighed. “Come,” he said. “Sit down with me a minute.”

After a moment’s hesitation, Timmy moved to the sofa and sank onto the cushions. Papa reached out and placed a hand on his shoulder.

“I was worried about this,” he began. “Maybe I should have warned you."

"Warned me about what?" asked Timmy.

"I was hoping it may not have happened yet." said Papa. "When he came in, he seemed reserved, but greeted us pleasantly and asked to go straight upstairs, so we thought he was just looking forward to seeing you.”

“He’s not himself,” said Timmy. “He was supposed to come to — we had talked about — I found him in his old room, unpacking a nearly empty suitcase. He barely smiled when he saw me. He’s talking like some kind of...and he...he called me _sir._ ”

Timmy thought about Armie, standing upstairs in that tiny bedroom, next to that tiny bed, looking like he didn’t know who he was, or who Timmy was, or anything that had gone on between them in the twelve years they had known each other, and he felt like he might be about to throw up. He swallowed quickly, over and over, as his stomach rolled.

Papa moved his hand to Timmy’s back and began to rub in slow, soothing circles.

“Helpers are not like other people.” Papa’s voice was gentle. “It’s what makes them Helpers. As children, they are almost indistinguishable for normal children, except that they tend to be more obedient without question. But as they mature...you’ve heard that Helpers are not intelligent, right?”

“Yeah, but Armie’s a genius. He’s always been way smarter than me.” Timmy began to pick at a small hole in the knee of this track pants.

“Well...I don’t know about that, but yes, he's always been bright. It’s just that when Helpers mature, they lose some of the abilities that normal people have.”

“Like what?” asked Timmy.

“Intelligence and critical thinking for one. For another, Helpers are not capable of experiencing emotions,” said Papa. “Or, at best, they can experience mild emotions.”

That didn’t make sense. Armie absolutely had the capacity to experience emotions, strong ones. Timmy had seen it for himself. “But Armie—”

“We were lucky with Armie,” said Papa. “Most of the time, the loss of emotion occurs in connection with puberty. For some, it takes longer. I should have warned you, I really should have...but I didn’t want to worry you. Your mother and I were both hoping we had more time, and that you’d get to see it happen gradually, get used to it. He must have undergone the turn while he was in training. That’s why it seems so abrupt and drastic.”

“It happens...gradually?” asked Timmy. He was trying to wrap his mind around the concept of someone — of _Armie_ — not feeling emotions, and it was a struggle.

“That was the way it was with Vanda,” said Papa. “You know she came to us just after your mother and I married. At first, she was shy and reserved, but then she and your mother became great friends. Unfortunately, after a year or so, she, like all Helpers...it took about three months before she was the way you see her now.”

Timmy thought about Vanda. She was definitely passive, and waited for cues from others. She often seemed either mildly pleased or mildly concerned, but not much else. Timmy had always thought she was just quiet, the way Papa had described her, but now that he thought about it…

“Armie seems worse than Vanda,” he said, suddenly. “Vanda talks almost like a person. Armie is...he’s reciting things. He’s using formal words. He’s acting more like a...like a _robot_ than a person.”

Papa frowned. “Well, he did just complete training,” he said. “Everything is very fresh, and they probably preferred the formal tone at the Helper Institute. Give him some time to be back home, adjust, learn your preferences. He’ll settle back in and probably seem more like himself.”

Timmy drew in a shaky breath. “But why doesn’t he seem like he _remembers_ me?” He squeezed his eyes shut. He thought he could almost handle it better if Armie had just changed his mind, decided he wasn’t interested in Timmy after all, or even that he didn’t much like him. Being...forgotten...that was much, much worse.

“Our memories are tied to our emotions,” said Papa. “Think about it. What are the things you remember most clearly about Armie?”

Timmy thought. He thought about all of those moments, the things that stood out in his memories as the biggest, brightest, most colorful. They were all almost tangible in the way they made him feel. He could remember elation and excitement, sadness and anger, all giving vivid texture to the scenes that slid through his mind. He swallowed.

“I remember the feelings,” he whispered, “that went along with those memories.”

“Right,” said Papa. “We always remember things more clearly when there is some emotion attached to them. Otherwise our memories merge into vague repeated patterns and hazy impressions. So if Armie isn’t capable of feeling those emotions anymore—”

“He can’t remember very well,” said Timmy. He hunched over himself, hiding behind his shaggy curls, trying to draw in breath as it felt like his chest was so tight his lungs had nowhere to expand.

It wasn’t that Armie didn’t remember, not exactly. It was that he didn’t _care_.

Papa shifted and put his arms around Timmy as the first sob escaped. He turned into his father then, crying in his arms the way he hadn’t since he was a small child. He wasn’t sure who he was crying for _more_ , himself or Armie. Or both.

After a while, he shuddered through some deep breaths and tried to get himself more in control.

“You mother was probably right,” Papa murmured over his head.

“About what?” asked Tim. He sat up and sniffed, then scrubbed his sleeve across his eyes and nose.

“She worried that we were bringing a Helper in too early,” Papa explained. “Generally, acquiring a Helper young has some benefits. You can help to raise them in the way you’ll want them to be as adults, for example. But, most of all, it often leads to a strong bond between the Helper and the Master, one that — in a form — survives the turning point and makes the Helper more loyal and better able to anticipate the Master’s needs.”

Timmy flinched and looked away. All the talk of him being Armie’s “Master” made him uncomfortable. It reminded him of Armie, blankly and resolutely reciting _The Helper’s Purpose_ upstairs like some automaton.

“Sometimes, however...your mother was concerned that you would become too attached, and that the turn would be difficult on you. Maybe we should have waited. Or...I handled this poorly...at least talked to you about it early so that you could distance yourself a bit.”

Timmy tried to imagine what his childhood would have been like without Armie by his side, and he simply couldn’t. Armie was so much a part of him and who he was, that he had no capacity to comprehend a world in which that wasn’t the case. Even thinking about it made him even more distressed than he already was.

He dropped his face into his hands. He had to find a way to deal with this, or...or what? Without knowing it, Papa answered that question with his next comment.

“Timmy, if you want...if this is too hard, I mean...we could find another home for Armie.” Papa laid his hand on Timmy’s knee. “It wouldn’t be—”

“ _No,_ ” said Timmy, snapping his head up. “You mean...get rid of him?”

“If it’s hurting you this much, maybe it would be easier if he wasn’t around,” said Papa.

Timmy shook his head furiously. He was having an automatic, visceral reaction to the idea of losing Armie completely. Even though _this_ Armie wasn’t really _his_ Armie...he couldn’t stand the thought of him with someone else.

“He’s mine, right?” asked Timmy. “He’s mine? So I get to make that decision.”

“Yes, of course,” said Papa. He frowned. “I didn’t mean...don’t worry. He can stay, as long as you want him to stay.”

The tension that had brought Timmy’s shoulders up around his ears released. “Thank you,” he said.

“You know,” said Papa, “like I said before, Armie just got back. He’s been gone a long time, in intense training. He might just need some time, and he’ll seem closer to what you remember. Momma still loves Vanda. They talk, and spend time together.”

“Do you think…” Timmy looked up at his father, feeling a small trickle of hope. “Do you think he might have a chance to be himself again?”

“I don’t want to get your hopes up.” Papa ran a hand through his hair and smiled. “However, he _is_ still Armie. He’s just another version of the Armie you knew. You two were so close, I’m sure that connection is still there. I’m not saying it can be like it was, I’m just saying...maybe give him a chance.”

Timmy nodded. His father was making sense. They had been so close, there was no way that was gone for good, no matter how little emotion Armie was able to feel. Maybe if he just talked to Armie, spent time with him, he would start to loosen up. He could _untrain_ Armie a little.

“I can do that,” he said. He pushed himself to his feet and nodded again. “I’m going to go try and talk to him.”

“That’s a good idea,” said Papa. “And be patient. I promise you he wants to make you happy, so give him the opportunity to figure out how to do that.”

Timmy slowly made his way back up the stairs. He braced himself for what he would find when he reached the bedroom, but he made himself put one foot in front of the other. This would work out, he told himself firmly. Papa was right. No matter what had happened, how he had changed, the person in that room was still _Armie_ , and Armie was his, in whatever form he took. He had to at least try to reach him in some way, crack through the well-trained exterior protected by a wall of dulled emotions.

He resolutely walked into Armie’s old bedroom. Armie was sitting on the bed, but he immediately stood when Tim appeared in the doorway, and gave Timmy a mild, expectant smile. Then he narrowed his eyes slightly, as if taking a closer look. His smile disappeared.

“You’re unhappy,” said Armie.

Timmy blinked. He had been crying — no, sobbing — he remembered. He must look a mess. But it was a good sign, wasn’t it, that Armie could tell that he was unhappy?

He nodded. “I was,” he corrected. “I just...learned some information that upset me. But don’t worry about that. What about you? Are you hungry? Tired?”

“No,” said Armie. “I’m content. Thank you.”

Timmy bit his lip. He stared intently at Armie for a moment, trying to find a glimmer of the boy he had known hiding inside. Try as he might, all he saw was someone who _looked_ like Armie but had none of his facial expressions, had a different voice, and, when he looked at Timmy, didn’t light up like the North Star.

He took a deep breath. “I thought maybe we could talk a little,” said Timmy.

“Yes, sir,” said Armie.

Timmy tried not to flinch at the formal address. He’d have to get Armie to stop calling him _sir_ if this was going to work, but...one step at a time.

“Come with me,” he said, and motioned for Armie to follow. He led the way down the hall to his room, and once inside, he pointed Armie towards the bed he used to sleep in, the bed that Timmy had been sleeping in every night since Armie left, even though the sheets had been changed a hundred times and it no longer smelled like his friend. “Have a seat,” he said.

Armie crossed to the bed and sat on the edge, back straight, hands on his knees, once again looking at Timmy expectantly.

Timmy rolled his eyes. “Not like that,” he said. “Like this.” He crawled onto the bed behind Armie and sat cross-legged, his back against the wall. He moved the pillows from the head of the bed and patted the space next to him. “Sit here, like I am, facing this way.”

Armie stood and, after folding himself around in what seemed an impossible way, he had followed Timmy’s instructions and was seated with his back to the headboard so he was at a corner angle to Timmy. Their knees were almost, but not quite, touching, and Timmy’s eyes dropped to that half-inch gap. Should he shift a bit closer, or wait? Wait, he decided.

They sat in silence for a few minutes, and then Timmy cleared his throat. It seemed he would have to start.

“I made the track team,” he said. He raised his eyes to Armie’s face, hoping for any kind of reaction, but all he saw was the same placid smile. “And then I did what you told me, and kicked ass. I kicked it up and down the track, both indoor and outdoor. I was...I was _fast_ , Armie.” He grinned in spite of himself, remembering how it felt to virtually fly across finish lines and over hurdles. He pointed across the room to the bulletin board by the door. “All those medals? I won those. I would imagine you telling me I could, so I believed it, and I just...kept winning.”

“Congratulations,” said Armie. “You must have been very proud.”

 _I wanted_ you _to be proud,_ he thought, but immediately dashed it away.

"Hey.” Timmy took Armie’s left hand and turned it over, examining the inside of Armie’s wrist. “Your Helper Mark. It’s different.”

He traced his fingers over the new, more elaborate and intricate scrollwork patterns that were slightly raised on Armie’s skin. In the center were the letters THC.

”Is that...those are my initials?” Timmy asked.

”Yes,” said Armie. “I belong to you.”

Timmy searched Armie’s face again for some indication that those words meant something to Armie beyond just the mark of Helper ownership. He saw nothing.

He decided to try something else. “I also decided to do theater this year. I know I was always kind of shy about it, but I just asked myself what you would tell me, and I could hear your voice telling me to give it a shot. And you know what? I was good. I got two lead roles. I even had to _sing_ in one, but...not very well.”

Armie nodded. “Good job,” he said. “What shows were you in?”

Timmy perked up. That was an actual question. Armie was moving the conversation forward rather than just responding. A good sign, right?

“ _Death of a Salesman_ and _Cabaret_ ,” he said with a grin. “I was Willie Loman in _Salesman_ and the Emcee in _Cabaret._ I think I got the Willie Loman part because...do you remember when I had to read _Death of a Salesman_ in tenth grade and you made me act it out? You sat right here on this bed and said that reading lines on a page in your head was no way to experience a play. Do you remember?”

Armie’s eyes went distant — more distant — and he frowned. Then he shook his head slightly. “No,” he said. “But I trust you if you say we did. Would you like to do it again?”

“No,” said Timmy. “I was just remembering how hard we laughed when...it doesn’t matter.” Okay, that was a step back. But Timmy decided not to be discouraged. “I took AP English this year,” he said. “Straight As. I took the exam this week, and I think I did well, so I might get college credit.”

“You’re very smart,” said Armie.

“Sure, maybe,” said Timmy. “You are, too, you know.”

Armie frowned. “Helpers have no need to for their own intelligence,” he said. “A Helper trusts his Master’s intelligence implicitly and does not question it.”

Timmy blinked and felt a wave of cold wash over him. That was just like when Armie was stating _The Helper’s Purpose_ , this automatic, recitational response to a stimulus. He swallowed.

“You _are_ smart,” Timmy said softly. He moved closer, so that now their knees _were_ touching, and he laid a hand on Armie’s thigh. “Listen to me, Armie. You’re not just a Helper. Remember? You’re my friend. My best friend. And when you left, we thought...we _both_ thought, that maybe we were more.”

Armie blinked at him, but didn’t contradict him, so Timmy took a breath and continued. “Somewhere in there—” he tapped on Armie’s head, and Armie’s brows drew together in mild confusion, “— is _my_ Armie. My version of you, the one that left eight-and-a-half months ago. He was...smart, and funny, and kind. He teased me a lot, but I knew it was because he loved me. Like I loved him.”

Armie was watching Timmy, but not otherwise reacting. Timmy pushed forward.

“I _still_ love him,” said Timmy. “I love _you._ I just need you to...remember us. Remember what we were, what you were. Okay? As much as you can, whenever you can. Even if you can’t ever quite get back to where you were, just... _try._ ”

Timmy held his breath. He watched Armie for some sign, any kind of sign, that Armie was trying to remember. Armie looked nothing other than vaguely concerned. Timmy laid a hand on Armie’s chest. Armie was warm and solid underneath his thin sweater.

Slowly, Timmy leaned forward. He didn’t know if what he was about to do would make any difference. He had some vague notion in the back of his head that if he could do what he and Armie had intended for them to do when Armie returned, maybe Armie would snap back into himself and remember. Maybe it would be like in the movies, when true love’s kiss broke the evil sorcerer's curse.

Was it true love, what he had had with Armie? It had been so long, and he had built it up so much in his head, so he couldn’t be absolutely sure. But he thought so. He thought that what had grown between them over the years was real and true and...maybe a little magical.

He had to _try_ , at least.

Armie didn’t move as Timmy leaned closer. When he was a breath from Armie’s lips, shaking with anticipation, he whispered, “I have been waiting to do this again for far too long. Have you?”

Of course Armie said nothing.

Timmy closed the last sliver of space between them, pressing his lips against Armie’s. At first, Armie’s mouth just sort of gave to the pressure, and Timmy found himself kissing Armie’s teeth instead of his lips. So Timmy pulled back and made his own mouth less firm. He brushed his lips in a feather light touch against Armie’s.

Armie barely moved.

When Timmy sat back, he examined Armie’s face. “Don’t you want to kiss me?” he asked, hating how pitiful and thin his voice sounded.

“If that’s what you want, sir,” said Armie.

“Armie.” Timmy placed his hands on Armie’s cheeks, pulled him close, and rested their foreheads together. “Armie, _please._ Please come back to me.”

“I’m here,” said Armie. “I’ve returned.”

“No. No, no, no, no, you’re not,” said Timmy, shaking his head back and forth. “You don’t feel _anything_ when I do this?” He ran his hands over Armie’s hair — Armie’s short, closely shaven hair. “Or...or this?”

He went for Armie’s mouth again, and this time, Armie’s lips moved slightly, but that was it. Overall, he remained passive, allowing Timmy to control the kiss. Armie was there, in body, but there was just...nothing inside. Certainly not his Armie.

“ _Fuck_ ,” said Timmy, falling back against the wall.

“You’re upset,” said Armie.

Timmy’s mouth dropped open, and he felt a sizzle of anger. “Yes. Yes, I’m upset,” he snapped. “Fuck, Armie, you’re supposed to do what, provide comfort, and you—”

He pressed his hands against his eyes. When he opened them again, Armie was still watching him.

“Would you like me to hug you?” asked Armie. “Or is there something else that would make you feel better? I’ll learn what you like, eventually, but for now, you can instruct me.”

“I just…” Timmy suddenly felt exhausted, like he hadn’t slept in weeks. He sagged against the wall and closed his eyes. “Armie, you can go to bed,” he said.

He felt the mattress shift as Armie stood.

“Is there anything else you need tonight, sir?” asked Armie. “A glass of water? Or tea?”

“No,” said Timmy. “I don’t need you right now. You can go.”

“Yes, sir,” said Armie. “Good night.”

Timmy waited until he heard Armie leave before he opened his eyes. He stared at the empty doorway, at the wall surrounding it. At the track team medals, and the photos on dressers and the walls, so many photos of him and Armie growing up. Everything looked suddenly grey, like Armie’s eyes.

Timmy stood and moved calmly and deliberately around the room, carefully pulling each photo down, removing it from its frame. He stacked them neatly and then opened the bottom drawer of Armie’s dresser. He shoved them inside, under Armie’s pajamas. Then he yanked his medals off the walls and tossed them in along with the photos. The Cabaret photo and the newspapers followed.

He yanked the dresser away from the wall and shoved it with all his might. He hadn’t removed the drawers this time, but he was bigger and stronger, and with a few carefully timed pushes, he had maneuvered the dresser halfway out into the hall. One of the legs got stuck on the threshold, and Timmy gave up, stumbling backwards.

Fuck it. It could sit there all night and he’d make Armie move it in the morning.

And with that thought, the last little thread of his control snapped.

He felt the tears bubbling up all over again, a sudden thickness in his chest and throat, an ache in his jaw, an itchiness in his eyes. He sat in the middle of his bedroom floor, tipped his head back, and let it all come. All the longing and the pain that came along with the gaping Armie-shaped hole that had been part of his existence for the past eight-and-a-half months, all the disappointment that Armie’s return hadn’t gone the way he had hoped, all the horror at what Papa had told him about Helpers…he let it rise up and around him like flooding waters.

He didn’t care that he was making noise. He didn’t care that the door was open.

There was no point in hiding it. No point in faking it, not anymore. Not for Armie, and not for himself. That time was over and done.

It was time to move on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I repeat...forgive me?
> 
> I have found my way to an ending that doesn't make me want to die, so there is that to look forward to.
> 
> Stick with me, I need the company in this bleak Pit of Despair.


	6. The Bitterness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's always darkest before the dawn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PLEASE READ THIS, BUT BEWARE  
> ***SPOILERY TRIGGER WARNINGS INCLUDED***
> 
> 1) Please heed the tags.
> 
> 2) This chapter is very, very dark.
> 
> 3) No, seriously. Read #1 and #2 again.
> 
> 4) SPOILERY TRIGGER WARNING: There is definite dubcon and possible noncon in this chapter. It sort of depends on your perspective, but some people will absolutely read it as noncon (I have used test audiences and gotten a 50/50 split on it). If this is going to give you trouble, please skip the part of this chapter after Timmy leaves the kitchen. Again, this is the worst of it, so if you can stomach this, you should be okay going forward.
> 
> 5) A huge thank you and eternal gratitude, as always, to my beta reader. He has not yet steered me wrong. Also a huge thank you to cumpeachx, who tested this for me as well. You both rock.
> 
> 6) Can you tell I'm nervous about this chapter? Keep that in mind when you come at me with pitchforks.

[Chalamazed](https://twitter.com/chalamazed/status/1108536473559728128)

 

_Nine Years Later_

Timmy stumbled out of the elevator on the penthouse floor of his building. When he reached out a hand to steady himself, he grabbed onto a wall sconce that apparently wasn’t well-attached, and with a frightening _crack_ it pulled free from its base.

“Fuck.” He staggered an additional step to the left and then caught his balance. He stared at the sconce in his hand, wires trailing out the back, and then burst out laughing. With a last snicker, he dropped the sconce, which swung back and hit the wall, dangling by its wires below the gaping hole it had created.

 _Shit. Okay_. That was fine. He’d call the building, tell them to fix it. Tomorrow. At some point. When he remembered.

The door to his apartment still seemed far away, and he gave himself a second to rest in place before attempting the journey. He took bets with himself. Was it seven steps or ten? If he made it in seven, he could go straight to his room and go to sleep. If it took more than seven, he would eat some dinner before passing out.

Was he really drunk enough to pass out? He closed his eyes experimentally and swayed in place, but kept his balance.

Maybe, then.

It took him nine steps to get to his door — mainly because he detoured to the right wall once by accident — but he decided it counted and that he had better eat something.

When was the last time he had eaten? Breakfast? He remembered eating an omelette and some bacon, so that was probably breakfast. Lunch had been late, and mostly liquid, though it’s possible there were some crackers or peanuts involved.

He punched in the security code to get into his penthouse and opened the door. He stepped inside and closed the door without incident. _Good job_ , he congratulated himself.

He kicked off his leather shoes in the general direction of the closet, hoping they’d find their way in there on their own. Then he set — okay, dropped — his keys and wallet on the floor next to the entry table. He _may_ have been aiming for _on_ the table and missed, but he wasn’t going to admit that to anyone.

Timmy looked around the spacious living area of his apartment. As a penthouse, it was rather impressive. Floor-to-ceiling windows, elegant furniture, expensive art that he hadn’t picked out himself and didn’t understand...most of the time, aside from the view, he _hated_ this place.

What he didn’t hate was the smells that wafted towards him from the other side of the living area, behind the doors to the elaborate chef’s kitchen. He sniffed.

_Lasagna._

His stomach growled, and then churned. Had he known he was getting lasagna tonight? Maybe that’s why he had skipped lunch. Probably a poor choice, in retrospect. But then, it was likely he hadn’t _known_ at that point that he was going to storm out of the office at three and park his ass on a bar stool for three hours.  

He counted his steps through the living area, past the well-stocked wet bar — he was fine on drinks at the moment, thank you — and towards the door to the kitchen.

Timmy paused outside the door. He could hear Armie moving around in there, doing whatever he did when Timmy wasn’t around. There was the sound of a faucet, and some clattering. Dishes, then.

He shifted from one foot to the other, wondering if his desire to Eat Something was going to win out over his desire to Avoid Armie. This was a game he played with himself — and the demons inside him named guilt, bitterness, and loss — every damned day. Multiple times a day.

_Go down to breakfast and deal with Armie, or sneak out and get a coffee on the way to the office?_

_Tell Armie about the dry cleaning and have to talk to him, or take the damned suits myself on my lunch break?_

_Ask Armie to make these appointments and have him ask me questions, or just get out my calendar and make the dozen calls myself?_

This. This had been Timmy’s existence, his primary mode of decision-making, for over nine years.

Okay, that was exaggerating. It hadn’t always been this way.

After the night Armie had returned home and Timmy’s entire world had exploded into dust and ash, he had sworn he was done and moving on. That it was going to be too hard to do what Papa had suggested, to give _this_ Armie a chance to settle in and be more like himself, to try to adjust.

But, of course, he hadn’t given up. For the following year, he had tried, really tried, to make some progress with Armie. He had tried conversations, activities, patience.

Conversations with Armie were like talking to a vaguely responsive honeydew melon. He would say something back, or answer direct questions, but it was all so mildly sweet and bland. He rarely asked questions or moved the conversation forward unless he thought he needed to know something in order to a better Helper. It was never out of curiosity or a desire to purely get to know Timmy or find out about his life.

As for activities...he would participate if Timmy wanted him too, but physical activities were generally a disaster. Armie was more focused on what Timmy was doing than on what he was doing, usually getting in the way or making Timmy worry he was just going to hurt himself.

Momma cautioned Timmy not to push too hard on those kinds of things. She encouraged him to try more sedentary games. And he did, but Timmy quickly learned it wasn’t fun to play cards or video games with someone who didn’t care if they won and would prefer to lose to him in general, often just sort of giving up part-way through with a _you win_ and a slight smile.

When his frustration led him to want to give up again, Momma advised him to have patience. She told him he had to _teach_ Armie how he wanted Armie to respond.

He did try that, but...it left a bad taste in his mouth even when it worked. He didn’t want to teach Armie to do what he liked. He just wanted Armie to be _Armie_ and respond as himself. That had always worked just fine for them. This felt...artificial, because that’s exactly what it was.

So a year and three months later, when it was time for Timmy to leave for college, he made a big decision. He was going to leave Armie in his parents’ care. Taking a Helper to college was a complicated process, at any rate, and would have meant that he would have had to have his own room — that he shared with Armie — in a separate Helper-friendly dorm rather than living with the regular student population.

It was common for college students to have their Helpers visit, however, and Timmy didn’t want that. In fact, once he left for Columbia, he didn’t go home again, at all, for his entire college career. His parents seemed to understand, and didn’t push. They came to visit him in the city on holidays, helped him find sublets to stay in the city during the summers...basically made it so that he could go four whole years without laying eyes on his Helper. He could be normal again.

Timmy thought this would be easier, that maybe if he was apart from Armie for a while, he would get used to things. At first, it seemed to work. He could pretend that Armie was still away at training, missing him, and would come home good as new someday.

Of course, Timmy didn’t last in that state for long. He couldn’t resist asking about Armie when he called home. He hated to do it, but it was like he couldn’t help it.

“How is he? Is he eating enough? Does he seem content?” These questions became an expected feature of his calls home. The answers to all questions was always yes.

“Does he ask about me?” Timmy would ask, on a semi-regular basis, trying to tell himself not to hope for the answer he knew would never come.

“No,” Papa would say with a sigh. “He doesn’t ask.”

Timmy would drop the subject, then.

Once, towards the end of his senior year, Papa added, “He doesn’t ask, but...I think he misses you.”

Timmy’s pulse had leapt at that comment. “What do you...how can you tell?” asked Timmy. “Has he said anything?"

“Not exactly, but there’s something about the way he...holds himself. When your mother and I mention you. It’s like he’s on alert. I think he’s listening more closely.”

Timmy tried to imagine what that would look like, see what his father was describing, but it was difficult. So he asked for more details.

“Well, the other night, I was telling your mother about that job offer you got, from Flint and Greene Investments. Armie was watching us, like I said, and so I asked him what he thought of that. He asked me if you were happy. I told him I thought you were, because it was a great job offer, and he said that I should congratulate you for him.” Papa chuckled. “He really looked...more content than usual.

Timmy digested that information. It wasn’t much, but it was something, and try as he might, Timmy hadn’t yet let go of the last bit of hope that there was some shred of his Armie in existence somewhere, trying to get out.

After graduation, Timmy had once again told his father that he did _not_ want to find Armie another home. Papa had cautioned him that if he didn’t intend to take Armie back, he should consider selling him, so that he would have a proper Master.

“Helpers are supposed to have Masters,” said Papa. “It’s not good for them to have no one to serve.”

“He’s been serving you,” said Timmy defensively.

“It’s not the same,” said Papa gently. “I know he doesn’t experience emotions like we do, but still...he’d be happier with a real Master, instead of a substitute. So if you don’t want to sell him...you have to take him back.”

Timmy didn’t want him back, but...he didn’t want him _gone_ , either.

That was why, on a sultry June day, it was Armie who helped Timmy move into a fifth floor walk-up in Brooklyn. It was Armie who helped Timmy put together cheap particle-board furniture he had ordered online. And it was Armie who began to stock Timmy’s kitchen and prepare meals and run errands.

At first, Timmy once again tried to make headway. He once again attempted conversation, tried a few activities, tried to be patient. All he managed, however, was to train Armie to ask about his day and tell him about his own activities while they were apart.

Again, it was something...but it was not enough.

About a year into his job at Flint and Greene, he had landed a large account, made a killing for them, earned a monster commission, and got a big promotion. That, along with the release of the first tier of his trust fund, gave him the capital to finance his penthouse apartment on Park Avenue. When he bought it, he wasn’t thinking about it in terms of style. He was thinking about the _space_.

As much as he hated the place in general, he did like that his bedroom was all the way at one end and Armie’s was all the way at the other, with the living area in between. He liked that he had an office _and_ a den to shut himself up in, and there was plenty of space for Armie to putter around and amuse himself without being in Timmy’s hair or line of sight.

Because at the end of it all...Armie wasn’t really Armie, and no matter how much time had passed, Timmy couldn’t get over that. He couldn’t stop remembering _his_ Armie every time he looked at this substitute, and that made the bitterness inside him grow on a daily basis. He had begun to almost hate Armie. Hate the sight of him, at least.

The only way to avoid it spilling over was avoidance. That, and drinking, which Timmy had become _very_ good at.

Speaking of which...he cast his eyes back towards the wet bar. Maybe he was ready for his next drink after all. Maybe his next drink could be dinner. Maybe he didn’t _really_ want lasagna. Thick, gooey layers of pasta, cheese, tomato sauce, spicy sausage…his stomach growled again.

Nope. Lasagna was going to win. But he would get his plate fast, and escape into the den, where it was dark and he could be alone, and try not to think about what a clusterfuck work had become and whether he was going to get himself fired.

Gritting his teeth, he pushed open the door to the kitchen. But he misjudged, pushed too hard, and fell through instead, sprawling on his stomach in the middle of the kitchen floor with a loud explosion of breath.

Strong arms gripped Timmy around the shoulders and turned him over, pulling him into a sitting position. Timmy blinked to clear his vision, and came face to face with Armie, who was crouched next to him.

“Are you all right, sir?” asked Armie. “You fell.”

Timmy couldn’t help but glare, and he couldn’t help the acidic tone in his voice. “Yes, I _know_ I fell. I was _there_.”

Armie stood and offered a hand, but Timmy ignored it and shoved himself to his feet under his own power. He brushed his hands off on his pants and rolled his shoulders. His knees and palms were going to be sore later. He probably wouldn’t remember why.

It was becoming all too common these days for Timmy to wake up with minor injuries and not know how he came by them.

“Is there dinner?” he asked.

“Yes,” said Armie, glancing over his shoulder. “It will be ready in forty minutes."

Forty minutes? Timmy reconsidered his need for food. Did he want to wait forty minutes?

“How come it’s not ready?” he asked.

“You are early,” said Armie. “It is only quarter past six. How was your day?”

Timmy rolled his eyes. He almost regretted teaching Armie to ask that question. Armie didn’t really care about the answer. What he wanted to know was what Timmy wanted from him, or how he could make Timmy happy, and Timmy had never been able to explain that Armie _couldn’t_ make him happy because he simply wasn’t the right Armie.

“It sucked,” said Timmy, “If you really want to know, which you don’t.”

Timmy yanked at his suit jacket. It was starting to feel like it was smothering him. When had it gotten so warm? He struggled with one sleeve, and had gotten his arm somehow folded up and caught inside it, when he felt a tugging.

He looked down and saw that Armie was deftly undoing the buttons. Which Timmy had forgotten to do, which was why he was having so much trouble. He forced himself to still and allow Armie to help him out of the jacket, ignoring as best he could the feeling of Armie’s fingers on his chest and shoulders as he drew the jacket the rest of the way off.

Armie shook it out and draped it over one of the island stools.

“Would you like to talk about it?” asked Armie.

“What?” Timmy squinted at his Helper. What the fuck was he talking about?

“Your day that ‘sucked,’” said Armie. “Would you like to talk about it?”

Timmy sighed. “Yes,” he said. “But not with you.”

Instead of responding, Armie simply stood, watching him.

“I mean, it’s not like you can help or anything,” said Timmy. The booze must have loosened his mouth or something, because for no reason he could discern, instead of turning and walking out, he kept talking. “There’s this new client, this _Childress Group_. I got them, which was sort of a huge deal, because they have a shit ton of assets. But the thing is, they know fuck-all about how to manage them. Which, you know, is why they hire _us_. But they are stupidly hands on.”

Timmy pulled out one of the stools and slumped onto it, resting his elbows on the counter. It _did_ sort of feel good to say this stuff out loud. Even if he knew Armie didn’t understand any of it.

But then Armie said, “And that ‘sucks’?”

It was more of a conversation than they had had in...years. Timmy blinked at him and continued.

“Yeah, because in this case it’s a huge fucking problem. Because they want to know every detail and they keep telling me what to invest in. Sometimes that’s fine but in this case they are shitty at this, and so they want to put money in these really risky ventures.”

Armie returned to the sink, and turned on the water, low. He began to wash several pots and pans. Timmy listened to the shushing of the faucet and the soft clinking of the pots for a moment before going on.

“So I don’t want to do it, but it’s their money, and the firm made it clear that with these guys it’s very important to keep them happy. I’ve been trying to counterbalance their stupid investments with better ones, but this morning they took a bath in a pretty big way. Which is bad enough, because they’re probably going to be pissed, and the firm will be mad at me. But there are a bunch of guys, particularly the ones just coming up behind me, who are jealous. They’re looking for any reason to take me down, and...it’s just really fucking stressful. I don’t know what to do about it.”

He looked up, watching Armie’s back move underneath his shirt as he moved a sponge across the surface of a pan. Armie didn’t say anything. Timmy felt a surge of annoyance. He was mainly annoyed at himself for even attempting conversation with Armie. He knew better by now. It always left him feeling shittier than before he started.

“Any advice?” he asked, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Want to tell me how to handle the client? The funds? The office politics? Any insight you want to drop on me? That would be helpful, and that’s what you’re fucking supposed to be, isn’t it?” Timmy felt his blood running hot again, pounding at his wrists and temples, in his neck.

Armie turned off the faucet and shook his hands in the sink. Then he turned around and examined Timmy passively. “You’re upset,” he said.

Timmy rose from the stool rapidly, and it fell backwards, clattering to the ground behind him.

“Yes, I’m fucking upset, you asshole,” said Timmy. “Jesus christ, this is why I don’t bother. _You fell. You’re upset._ I don’t need observations. I need...I need…” He shook his head. “You know what? Never mind. Fuck off. Fuck your dinner, too. I don’t want it.”

“Maybe you’d like to lie down for a while, sir. I can heat up dinner again later when you—”

“I said. Fuck. Off.” Timmy whirled and charged out of the kitchen, slamming the door behind him

He slammed his way down the hall and into his den, where he slammed _that_ door too. He turned on the television but left the lights off. The curtains were drawn, as usual, because Timmy liked this room dark. Then he went straight for his liquor cabinet and poured himself a whiskey. He tossed it back and poured a second. He considered drinking that right away too, but instead he grabbed the bottle and planted his ass on the leather sofa. He tucked the bottle next to him and began to sip his second whiskey slowly, letting the alcohol work its magic on his nerves. They were prickling, and he needed them to be _numb._

For the next few hours, he stared at multiple episodes of some idiot show about buying houses in foreign countries and refilled his glass until he felt like he was drifting. _Finally_.

He began to flip through the channels idly. He wondered what time it was, but couldn’t be bothered to pull out his phone and check. He didn’t want to see what was sure to be fifty messages from his firm about his whereabouts, since he had basically just told his assistant he had an appointment and walked out abruptly that afternoon.

He perked up a bit when he landed on a channel showing softcore porn. Maybe it was later than he thought.

Timmy dated. Not often, and never seriously, but he dated. It had just been a while since he had been out with anyone interesting, and even longer since he had seen action. Most of the time he just wasn’t that interested.

It wasn’t like he had lived like a monk, he reasoned. He had dated in college, sort of fiercely, hoping to find something or someone to interest him. He had felt sort of like he was showing up late to a game already in progress, but he managed short flings, sometimes with guys and sometimes with girls. He had had just one significant relationship in college, his junior year, with a girl named Sarah. Sarah was tall — taller than Timmy — and blonde, with piercing blue eyes. The irony of that, and the fact that maybe it wasn’t a coincidence, didn’t escape him. He tried to ignore it, tried to pretend he was falling in love, but eventually Sarah had gently let him go. She wanted someone to be in love with her, she had told him, and it was clear that wasn’t him.

Since then, he had taken a different attitude towards the whole thing. He would date as a means of temporary satisfaction and nothing else. He just wasn’t meant for something real and long term, was what he had eventually concluded. His heart had been claimed long ago, and it was impossible to get it back from someone who took it with him when he disappeared.

As he watched the action on the screen, he experimentally stroked his hand over his cock. Was he too drunk for this? But it twitched in interest, which was promising. He set his glass on the end table, unfastened his belt, and loosened his trousers. By this time, his cock was beginning to get with the program, growing semi-hard in anticipation.

He began to stroke his dick, slowly at first, and then with more focus as he got harder. He was dry, but maybe in a minute he’d be leaking enough to ease the way. He watched the actors on screen — some guy was eating out some girl, so maybe this wasn’t so softcore after all, what the hell channel was he on — but when that didn’t do the trick, he tipped his head back and closed his eyes.

 _“Fuck,”_ he whispered into the empty room. He knew exactly where his mind was going to go, and knew there was nothing he could do to stop it. There never was.

In his imagination, Armie stood in front of him. It was always some amalgamation of _his_ Armie, young and sparkling and brilliant, and the Armie he was stuck with, more mature, bigger, somehow impossibly sexy despite not being...enough in any other way. Armie took off his shirt, exposing his tanned chest, and Timmy imagined himself licking his way around the uneven planes, running his nose through Armie’s hair, biting each nipple in turn. He imagined Armie moaning under his touch, recognition and interest sparking in his eyes as he whispered, _Timmy._

Timmy let out a moan of his own as the fantasy began to take on a life of _its_ own. Now Armie was bending him over the arm of this very sofa and sliding a long finger inside him.

He was about halfway to working himself off when he heard a swift knocking. Timmy opened his eyes and peered around the darkened room in confusion, trying to bring his drunk brain back from the fantasy into reality. Before he managed, the door opened, and the real version of the person who had just been finger-fucking him stood in the doorway.

“Sir, I wanted to check again about dinner, and whether you had changed your…” Armie stepped forward and stopped. His expression remained passive, but he trailed off as his eyes fastened on Timmy’s hand, which had stilled on his leaking cock.

Timmy stared up at him, mouth open. After a moment, he recovered enough to realize that Armie was _still_ standing there, staring, and not talking.

His mouth twisted into a leering grin. “See something you like, Armie?” he heard himself ask.

Armie didn’t respond right away, but in the flickering light from the television, Timmy could swear he saw Armie’s Adam’s apple move, as if he was swallowing.

 _Interesting_.

“Why don’t you come closer?” he said. “Get a better look.” For a moment, he thought he might have mistaken things, and was still in the middle of his fantasy, because Armie looked up from Timmy’s dick and into his eyes.

“You’d like me to come closer?” he asked.

Timmy’s mouth went dry.

What he _should_ do is say no. _No, Armie. Go to bed, I don’t need you tonight._

What _wanted_ to do was say yes. _Yes, Armie. I need you._

Would it be so terrible if he said yes? Lots of people used their Helpers this way. It wasn’t discussed openly, but it was well understood that it happened, and it happened often. It wasn’t illegal or anything. Timmy never had, and never thought he would, but…

Maybe he was imagining things. He was drunk, after all, so he was probably imagining things. But he thought that...maybe...Armie looked...like maybe he was...curious.

“Would _you_ like to?” asked Timmy. “Do you want to...touch me?”

Armie’s eyes drifted back down, and then up again. “If it would please you,” he said.

In that moment, there was nothing that would please Timmy more. If hadn’t had so much to drink, it never would have gone this far. But here they were. And so…

“Come here,” said Timmy. “Kneel down in front of me.”

Armie moved immediately, dropping onto the floor between Timmy’s legs. His face was now a mere foot from Timmy’s cock, and Timmy began to stroke up and down his length again. He was harder than he had been in a while, and he knew what he wanted.

“Armie,” he whispered, “it would please me if you sucked my dick. Wrap your mouth around me and don’t let go until I come down your throat. Can you do that?”

Armie nodded. “Yes, sir,” he said. Then, without hesitation, he leaned forward and took Timmy in his mouth.

Timmy’s moan could have woken the deaf on Staten Island.

For a few moments, he was paralyzed, unable to move, as Armie sank down on his cock and then pulled back again, setting a rhythm and a suction that made his vision go black. He was breathing hard, muttering _fuck_ and _yes_ and _finally_ and _Armie_ over and over. Eventually, he let go of his dick, which allowed Armie even more access.

He couldn’t help but to thrust upwards in time with Armie’s motions, but when Armie gagged, he forced himself to stay still and let his Helper be in charge.

And Armie, for what it was worth, _took charge_. He seemed to be adjusting his pressure and speed in response to Timmy's reactions. Then he added his hand, and after a few more minutes, Timmy felt the orgasm beginning to build. He thought it would be a slow build, since he was so drunk, but then Armie moaned around his cock, and instead it barreled in like a freight train.

“Oh, _fuck,_ ” Timmy cried, and then he was shooting down Armie’s throat, and Armie was swallowing convulsively, his throat closing repeatedly around the head of Timmy’s cock, drawing the orgasm out of him on a long wail.

Timmy descended down the other side, sinking bonelessly into the sofa. Armie pulled off of him and sat back, wiping a hand across his mouth. Timmy watched him for a moment, thinking that he was beautiful, with shadows dancing across his features as the light from the hall filtered into the room and the television flickered behind him. Timmy could see his long lashes, and his jaw, and for a second...he looked like _Armie_ again.

“You’re pretty,” Timmy sighed. “Thank you.” He knew he was slurring the words, but he couldn’t seem to help it.

Armie smiled. “You’re happy?” he asked. “You feel better than before?”

“Yeah.” Timmy felt like he was barely speaking now, his throat forming the word, but having trouble pushing out the sound. He tried again. “Yeah, I feel good.”

“Good,” said Armie.

Timmy closed his eyes, smiling back, and drifted into a euphoric sleep.

* * *

When Timmy next opened his eyes, his first thought was that someone was stomping on his head. He squeezed his eyes shut again, groaning and clutching at his temples as the headache attacked him viciously. After a few minutes, he forced one eye open.

He was stretched out on the sofa, face down, covered in an afghan and drooling all over a throw pillow that had come from the chair across the room. When had he gotten up to get the pillow? He figured he must have done it before deciding that his bed — which was next door — was somehow too far away.

Peering around, he took note of the light filtering in the edges of the curtains. Morning, then. What the hell time was it?

With a grunt, he shakily pushed himself into a sitting position, pulling the afghan across his lap, and moaning again when the pounding in his head intensified. He gave himself a moment to get acclimated, and then took stock of himself and the room.

It didn’t look too bad. Often, after drinking like he had had the night before, things were more of a mess. But...things looked neat.

The half-empty bottle of whiskey was back on the bartop in the corner, and the empty whiskey glass — which he was sure he had put on the end table — was gone. In its place were two bottles of water, three aspirin, a thermos, a plain bagel in a ziploc bag...and a note.

Timmy reached over and picked up the note.

_Sir,_

_You should take the medicine, drink the water, and eat part of the bagel. Then go back to sleep, here or in your bed. I called your office and told them you had food poisoning, so they do not expect you to come in today. Let me know if you need anything. I left some coffee as well in case that will help._

The note wasn’t signed. It didn’t need to be. Timmy felt something twist in his chest.

Armie. Armie had cleaned up, had gotten him a pillow, had covered him with the afghan. Armie had left him hangover help, and had arranged it so he could stay home and sleep it off.

He’d never done this before. It wasn’t the first time Armie had taken initiative to deal with something on Timmy’s behalf, but usually...they were smaller things. Like making sure the menu was nutritious or things were repaired or cleaned properly. This felt...more personal.

How had Armie even known? Timmy tried to remember the night before. He remembered drinking in the bar all afternoon, then stumbling home. He remembered lasagna. Had he eaten lasagna? He wasn’t sure, but he didn’t think so.

He remembered talking to Armie about something. Being angry. _Shit_ , had he yelled at Armie? He searched his brain, and vague impressions of repeatedly shouting at Armie to _fuck off_ came forward.

Timmy’s stomach rolled, and he took a deep breath. He shouldn’t have yelled at Armie, just because _he_ had had a shitty day at work. That wasn’t fair. The guilt washed over him, and he let it.

Okay, he thought. You apologize. Apologize to the guy, and don’t do it again, that’s all you can do.

It might not even matter, he realized. Armie didn’t feel emotions, so he might not even have been bothered by it.

Comforted by that thought, Timmy grabbed a bottle of water and the aspirin and downed them both. Then he pulled open the ziploc and tore off tiny pieces of bagel. After a few minutes, he was feeling slightly more human, and he picked up the thermos.

The coffee smelled amazing, and tasted even better. The sharp, slightly bitter taste perked him up and made him feel better still. Armie made truly great coffee. He may have been lacking in many ways, but there was no denying that there were a lot of things he was great at.

 _Maybe tell him that sometimes, you asshole,_ he scolded himself.

When he had drunk half the coffee, he decided to try to shower. He was feeling particularly grimy. Probably because he had slept in his fucking suit. Jesus.

He really needed to stop drinking like this. It was embarrassing.

With a sigh, he set the thermos down and then threw off the afghan —

— and felt a draft of air on his naked cock.

Timmy stared down at his open trousers, his dick hanging out, and felt like he had been doused with a bucket of ice water. The events of the night before — all of the events — came flooding back.

 _Oh, fuck_.

He didn’t have time to do up his pants before he dashed into the bathroom and lost the contents of his stomach.

_Fuck, fuck, fuck._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is rock bottom, I promise. The road from here is not easy, and there will be dips and backslides, but it will get better.
> 
> Thank you from the bottom of my heart for letting me share this story with you, and for having faith in me!


	7. The Mosaic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Timmy atones for his actions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So apparently I over-warned the last chapter ;) but I just didn't want anyone to be blindsided. I'll keep in mind that this fandom might be made of fairly strong mettle.
> 
> Again, thank you for being so invested in this story. It means so much to me when people reach out.
> 
> Fiction, of course.

[Chalamazed](https://twitter.com/chalamazed/status/1108536473559728128)

After his shower, Timmy stood in the bathroom and stared at himself in the mirror for a while, trying to come to terms with what he had done the night before. With what, it seemed, he had become. He squinted, turned his head this way and that, made faces.

He looked like himself, the person he had always been.

He was Timmy-Tim, the light of his parent’s life, the center of their universe, the prince of their kingdom. Precocious and sweet and full of curiosity and imagination.

He was Timmy, the skinny kid with the big eyes and the sharp features and the curly dark hair. The kid who was decent at math, and kind of shy sometimes, but who covered it up by being a goof and trying to make people laugh. The clumsy freshman who couldn’t walk in a straight line. Armie’s best friend, his _everything_.

He was Timmy C, jersey number twelve, star of the track team.The dude who somehow landed Willie Loman and the Emcee with no prior experience. Straight-A student with a newspaper byline. The guy who wouldn’t date the girls (and occasional boy) who came onto him because he secretly was in love with his Helper who had gone away.

He was TIm, Columbia student who worked hard and partied in the in-between spaces, leaving no time for sleep or leisure or boredom. The kid who played the field like it was going to expire and was always looking for the next candidate to be Mr. or Ms. Right. The independent adult who had no need to return home. Ever.

He was also Timothée Chalamet, the only son of Marc Chalamet, one of the youngest superstars Flint and Greene Investments had ever seen. A wizard with investment, a charismatic client-charmer. A raging alcoholic who hated his every waking moment.

And, obviously, the shittiest person to ever own a Helper. Possibly the shittiest person to exist, full stop.

Yep, Tim thought, blowing out a breath. When he looked at himself, he saw all of that at once. Every contradictory, messy stage of himself was somehow reflected in his eyes, his stance, his expressions. Each extraordinary talent and hideous flaw, rolled up in one single package.

Turning away from the mirror, he scrubbed his hands over his face. He knew he had fucked up. Sure, Masters used their Helpers for sex all the time. But Timmy had never wanted to do that. He didn’t feel like it was right. And he _especially_ didn’t feel like it was right with Armie, not with their history.

Timmy _was_ feeling better, however. Less like death, more like a person who was kind of dehydrated and exhausted. Sitting on the edge of his bed, wrapped in a towel, he scrolled through the messages on his phone. As he had suspected, his office was looking for him. Even now, even after Armie had called in sick for him, they wanted answers.

He decided that, despite everything, he felt good enough to go in to work and face the music.

It would be better, after all, than facing Armie.

When he was dressed in another — non-rumpled, freshly dry-cleaned — designer suit, he took a deep breath and ventured down the hall into the main living space. He paused in the entrance to the living room, next to the door to the kitchen. He listened.

Nothing.

He wondered where Armie was. He might not even be home, Timmy realized. He might be out getting groceries or doing...whatever else Armie did. Timmy didn’t know. He had never bothered to ask.

Placing his hand on the kitchen door, he considered his options. He would really like another cup of coffee; on weekends, Armie often made a second, fresh pot mid-morning. It would still be hot in the insulated carafe. He also wouldn’t mind another bagel, since he had tossed up the first one and was now feeling a little more stable.

But if Armie was home...Timmy really didn’t want to see him. He wanted to escape to work, and then come home too late for dinner and go straight to bed and not have to see his Helper for at least another day.

Timmy’s stomach growled. It always seemed to come down to this, didn’t it? Food or sanity?

Figuring Armie might not even be in the kitchen in the middle of the day, Timmy gently pushed open the door and peered inside. Armie sat on a stool at the kitchen island, his back to the door. His palms were splayed on the surface of the table, and his posture was rigid. Timmy backed out of the room, closing the door gently. He could go now, he didn’t think Armie had heard.

But he hesitated, and then pushed the door open again. Timmy had seen Armie like this in the past...he’d just _sit_ somewhere, as if he was waiting. That was probably what he was doing, Timmy realized, wondering why he hadn’t recognized it before. Without any additional guidance, and all of his regular tasks completed, he was just _waiting_ for Timmy to need something else from him.

He didn’t think it was possible for his heart to break over Armie any more than it had, over and over, for the past nine years. He thought that he had long experienced the worst parts of it, seeing _this_ Armie day after day and never being able to escape the fact that _his_ Armie was gone from him forever. But watching Armie now, it killed him anew to think that this person, who had been so full of everything — life, humor, intelligence, interest, _love_ — could now be content to just sit and stare into space, as if he had gone into some kind of rest mode.

Was he ever lonely? Did he ever feel like...Timmy didn’t need him enough, and so he didn’t have purpose?

He remembered what his mother had told him, all those years ago, about being responsible for his Helper, taking care of his needs so he could take care of yours.

 _Shit_ , of course Timmy had been fucking this up too, in addition to every other thing in his life, and not even realizing it.

That thought drove him forward until he was standing just behind his Helper. He wasn’t wearing shoes, so his approach was silent, and Armie didn’t appear to know he was there. He slowly reached out a hand until he was almost touching Armie’s hair.

Then, holding his breath, he gently laid his hand on Armie’s head and let his palm stroke down the back of his skull and along his neck.

Armie let out a soft sigh.

Timmy thought that sound was encouraging, so he tried it again, and got another sigh. When he leaned around to see Armie’s face, he saw that Armie’s eyes were closed and his lips were curved in a small smile.

“Is that...do you like that?” asked Timmy quietly.

“If it pleases you, sir,” said Armie, opening his eyes.

“But I want to know if _you_ like it,” said Timmy. “Here, just...feel it, and tell me if it feels good to you.”

He pet Armie again, and this time Armie smiled at him.

“You do like it,” said Timmy. He smoothed his hand around to cup Armie’s cheek, and Armie’s eyes slid closed in what looked like bliss.

 _God_. Armie was starved to be touched. It had never occurred to Timmy before that Armie _wanted_ to be touched. He had never reached out to Timmy in his own need, only in response to his perception of Timmy’s.

“I’m sorry,” said Timmy. He wasn’t sure what he was apologizing for, exactly. Everything.

Armie opened his eyes in confusion. “You don’t need to apologize for anything, sir,” he said.

“I do. I’m sorry I yelled at you yesterday.” Timmy left his hand on Armie’s cheek, suddenly afraid to break that contact. It felt, for the first time, like a real connection.

“You are welcome to correct me when I’m acting incorrectly, or to express your emotions to me if doing so makes you feel better,” said Armie.

“It didn’t. Make me feel better,” said Timmy. “It made me feel worse. So...I’m sorry. You didn’t do anything wrong, either. That was just me taking things out on you that aren’t your fault. It was a dick move, and I shouldn’t have done it.”

Armie was quiet, and Timmy, unable to help himself, stroked his thumb across Armie’s cheek.

He cleared his throat. “I’m also sorry about...the other thing.”

Now Armie looked confused, but he said nothing.

“About last night, in the den. When I...when you…” Timmy swallowed. “When you came in and saw me, and I made you get down on your knees. I shouldn’t have done that.”

“I’m happy to do whatever pleases you, sir,” said Armie. “You were pleased afterwards.”

“No. I mean, yes, I was, but still...I’m sorry I made you do it.” He sighed and dropped his hand from Armie’s face. “I felt sick about it this morning, and so...I just needed to apologize.”

Armie nodded. He looked like he wanted to say something, but didn’t.

“Armie,” said Timmy, “if you have a question, or want to say something to me...please just do it. Or if... _you_ need something from _me..._ you have to tell me so I know.”

“Yes, sir,” said Armie. He didn’t say anything further, just stared at Timmy passively.

Timmy closed his eyes. He felt like he was swimming across a raging ocean. Sometimes, he would think he was making progress, but then...it seemed like he had been treading water because the shore was no closer than it had been.

“You are dressed for the office,” said Armie. “You are feeling better?”

Timmy opened his eyes. “Yeah,” he said. “Hey, thanks for the hangover stuff. It really helped.”

“You’re welcome, sir,” said Armie. He stood from the stool. “Would you like some more coffee to take with you?”

Timmy nodded, and silently watched Armie prepare him a coffee in a travel mug. When his Helper returned to him, he also had another plain bagel in a ziploc.

“Thanks,” said Timmy, taking the items. “Again.”

Armie nodded. “Will you be home at the usual time, or late?”

Timmy considered that a moment. He was going in late, so he should probably stay late, but...he had that food poisoning excuse that Armie had made for him, and could use that to bow out on time.

“Usual time,” he said. “I...didn’t get to have that lasagna last night. Is there any left?”

“Yes, sir,” said Armie. “The entire pan. I can reheat it and have it ready for seven.”

“Perfect,” said Timmy. “I...that’s perfect. I’ll see you tonight.”

He turned and left the room, feeling Armie’s eyes on him as he retreated.

Work wasn’t as bad as he assumed it would be. His immediate supervisor was concerned — _what did he eat, how is he feeling_ — and only vaguely seemed to be worried about _Childress Group_. His boss’s boss responded to his email explaining the transaction with a _thanks for the info, handle it_ , and, strangely, there was nothing from _Childress_ itself.

He did his best to deal with damage control on the actual accounts, and then, at half past six, he stood from his desk. Time to go home. He felt the nerves begin to churn in his stomach.

That was interesting. Nerves, not dread.

By the time he stepped off the elevator at seven, and noticed the dangling wall sconce — shit, that had probably been his fault and he should call about it — he wasn’t actually sure whether he was nervous about coming home or...something else.

Entering his apartment, he caught the rich, inviting scent of lasagna, and the earlier events of the night before came back.

 _Okay_ , he told himself, _tonight is different. You aren’t shitfaced. You aren’t going to make the same mistakes again. You are going to go in, be nice to Armie, and thank him for your dinner like a decent human being._

He placed his shoes in the hall closet, deposited his things on the side table, and headed for the kitchen. This time, he didn’t hesitate. He pushed right through the door.

Armie was pulling the lasagna out of the oven. He placed it on top of the stove, then pulled off his oven mitts and turned with a vague smile.

“Welcome back, sir,” said Armie. “The lasagna is ready; it just needs a few moments to cool.”

“That’s...great,” said Timmy. He hadn’t hesitated on the way in, but now he stood, shifting from one foot to the other. “It smells really good.”

“How was your day?” asked Armie.

Timmy licked his lips. “Better than I expected,” he said. “Thanks for asking.” When Armie didn’t respond, but continued to watch him almost expectantly, he shrugged. “That thing I told you about yesterday? People are kind of annoyed, but mostly they just expect me to fix it. And I guess I can.”

“Good,” said Armie.

He turned and began to ready Timmy’s plate, opening and closing cabinets and drawers and slicing a steaming square of lasagna from the pan. Timmy’s mouth started to water.

Armie held out the plate. “Here you are, sir,” he said.

“Thanks.” He hovered for a moment, but then backed up quickly. “I’ll just..be in the den.”

Once in the den, Timmy, let out a shaky breath. Back to normal, then.

It was out of habit rather than anything else that he poured himself a whiskey, but he really only sipped it, and before he had emptied the glass, he set it aside. For some reason, it wasn’t tasting right.

An hour later, he had finished the lasagna and was two episodes into an Animal Planet marathon when the door to the den opened. Armie was silhouetted in the doorway, the light from the hall bracketing his large frame.

“Armie?” asked Timmy. “What is it?”

Armie didn’t respond. Instead, he slid into the room, closing the door behind him to block out the light. He was shrouded in darkness for a moment, and then his features were illuminated by the flickering glow of the television. He stopped and stared down at Timmy, his expression unreadable.

“Armie?” Timmy was immediately concerned. He sat up. “Is something wrong?”

Wordlessly, Armie moved in front of Timmy and dropped to his knees. He looked up at Timmy, the question clear on his face now.

“Woah,” said Timmy. “Armie, you don’t have to… this isn’t something that I’m adding to...to your duties,” he stammered. “Listen, I apologized for last night. I definitely don’t expect you to—”

He gasped as Armie reached out a hand and laid it on his crotch. His cock immediately stood at attention, filling out rapidly.

“Wait, wait,” he gasped. He took Armie’s hand and lifted it away, setting it on the sofa next to his thigh. “Armie, I’m not...you don’t have to do this.”

Armie tilted his head to the side. “It makes you happy,” he said.

“No. Well...yes. It does, but it’s not really _real_ happiness.” He sighed at Armie’s blank expression. “It’s good. I liked it. But I don’t want you to do things like that just because it makes me happy momentarily. I don’t want you to do anything you don’t want to do.”

Armie blinked. “I want what you want,” he said.

“Okay, that’s nice, but...what do _you_ want?” Timmy tried to keep the frustration out of his voice, tried to be as gentle as possible. “What if I told you that I wanted you to be happy? That...it would make me happiest to know you were doing something because you liked it, not because you thought I would? What would you do?”

Armie frowned. “I would do what pleases you, sir.”

Timmy held back a sigh. “Sure. Let me try this another way. Earlier, this morning, in the kitchen, I...touched you. Do you remember? When I touched your hair? Your face?”

Armie looked slightly confused, but nodded. “Yes, sir.”

“That made you feel something good, I think. So...what I’m asking you now, is to think back to that and...did what happened yesterday, like this...did it make you feel good like that?” He thought of the way Armie had been staring at his cock, how he had seemed to be maybe affected by it. How he had taken charge of the blow job without direction.

How he had moaned around Timmy right before he came.

There was a pause. It stretched on and on, as Armie watched Timmy. Just when Timmy was about to give up and tell Armie to leave him, letting go of this tiny little desperate fantasy that maybe — in some minuscule way — Armie wanted him, Armie spoke and made it worse.

“My feelings are unimportant. A Helper’s purpose is to—”

Timmy reached out and put a hand over Armie’s mouth.

“Shhhh,” he said. “Armie, I know _The Helper’s Purpose._ You don't need to recite it. And I don't give a fuck about what it says. You want what I want, right? Well right now what I want is for you to forget about what you've been taught about how your feelings don't matter and to tell me...when you were in here last night, did doing that for me make you feel good? Or not good?” He searched for an alternative way to say it, settling on how Arnie most frequently describe his state. “Content? Or not content?”

Timmy pulled his hand away. Armie furrowed his brow. He was thinking. That was good. Timmy held his breath until finally Armie said, “It made me feel good.”

The breath he was holding came out in a rush. He could hardly believe what he was hearing. Was Armie really saying that he enjoyed sucking Timmy’s cock? That maybe Timmy hadn't done such a shitty thing after all?

“Yeah?” he asked. “What did...what did you like about it?”

Another pause, and then Armie said, “You smiled. You were happy.”

Any positive thoughts Timmy had been entertaining fled. “Oh,” he said.

“Sir, allow me to make you smile again. You will be happy. Then I will leave you alone.”

Armie looked so hopeful, his eyes shining in the light from the television. Timmy chewed on his lower lip. This moment, right here, was more than he had ever really gotten out of Armie. Even though his feeling “good” was still all about Timmy...maybe that was okay.

His Helper was designed to be most focused on Timmy’s needs, and if Timmy was being honest with himself, that had been the case even before Armie had gone for training. Growing up, Armie had always considered Timmy’s happiness and safety first and his own interests second. Training had just...intensified that.

Back when he was growing up, it didn’t bother him that Armie would do whatever Timmy wanted. He had just accepted that that was the way of things. As they got older, Timmy had begun to pay more attention to the things that made Armie happy on their own separate and distinct from Timmy’s feelings. Those things existed — like Russian literature, and rare steak, certain movies, and music — and Timmy worked to make sure Armie had access to them.

But he had also let Armie take care of him. It had made them both happy...genuinely, he had thought. Was this really any different?

Armie had seen that what they had done the night before had brought Timmy momentary peace, and wanted to do it again. Like making lasagna or asking about Timmy’s day, or making a second pot of coffee on the weekends.

Maybe it honestly didn’t bother Armie that this was a truly intimate act. He didn’t think about that aspect, and he didn’t care. All he cared about was how it affected Timmy.

And if _that_ was the only thing that brought Armie his version of bland happiness, whatever limited amount he could feel, then...

Slowly, Timmy nodded. “Okay,” he said. “But if you don’t like it, if it makes you feel...fuck, I don’t know, if your stomach hurts or your throat or something...I want you to stop.”

“Yes, sir.” Armie brought both hands to Timmy’s pants, quickly undoing the belt, the buttons, the zipper. As Armie’s hands brushed at him, bolts of lust zinged straight down into his cock.

Armie had _such big hands_.

By the time Timmy was exposed, he was breathing carefully through his nose and three quarters of the way to rock hard. All it took was for Armie to take him in his hand for him to instantly make the rest of the journey.

“Ah,” he breathed. Armie was watching him carefully, and slowly stroked his hand upwards. Timmy made a strangled sound and let his head fall back on the cushions. “Yeah, that’s...good,” he muttered.

Armie continued to stroke him slowly. Timmy closed his eyes, but pried them open again because he was unable to keep from looking at the sight of Armie’s hand wrapped around his cock.

_Holy fuck._

He shifted his hips, pushing up into Armie’s hand, and then his breath caught in his throat as Armie leaned forward. Instead of immediately taking Timmy in his mouth, the way he had done the night before, Armie daintily licked the head of his cock.

Timmy whined.

Armie circled Timmy’s dick with his tongue and began to lick and suck his way down the shaft, never ceasing his stroking.

Finally, when Timmy was shaking with need, Armie glanced up at him, and then took him whole.

“Fuck, Armie...that’s so…” Timmy groaned. Unable to help himself, he reached out a trembling hand and slid his fingers through Armie’s hair.

Armie hummed, and the vibrations caused Timmy to thrust upward.

“Sorry...sorry,” Timmy gasped. He regained control and stroked his hand through Armie’s hair again. This time he was prepared for the contented hum.

He began to experiment, running his fingers around Armie’s ear and tracing lines along his brow and cheekbones. Armie’s eyes slipped closed and he began to moan softly around Timmy’s cock, moving more erratically.

The change in rhythm made it harder for Timmy to keep things under control, and in a few minutes he lost it entirely, barely having time to shout a warning before he came.

Armie sucked him through the orgasm, finally pulling off with a slurp. Timmy blinked at him dazedly, watching Armie lick his lips. He didn’t sit back. Instead, with Timmy’s hands — both of them, now — still tangled in his hair, he rested his cheek on Timmy’s thigh.

“You’re happy?” asked Armie.

Timmy couldn’t help the smile that slid across his face. “Yeah. I am,” he said. And he sort of meant it, in that moment in time. The way Armie was looking at him, he could almost pretend it was _his_ Armie.

He trailed his knuckles down Armie’s cheek, and Armie closed his eyes. Timmy almost couldn’t believe the way Armie responded to his touch. It was...kind of mesmerizing.

“That was amazing,” said Timmy. It was true. The night before had been good, but that was… “How did you learn how to do that?”

“I performed research,” said Armie, blinking up at Timmy. “Using the internet.”

Timmy couldn’t help the explosion of laughter. “You did _what_?” He tried to imagine Armie sitting at the computer and watching videos about blow jobs, and it brought on another round of laughter.

Armie sat up and leaned back on his heels. “Was that wrong?” he asked.

“No,” said Timmy, still giggling. The high from his orgasm was making him feel lightheaded. “No, it wasn’t wrong. I just didn’t expect you to say that. Or...do that. You’re...interesting.”

It was true, he realized. He knew Armie investigated information that would help him perform tasks. It was why Timmy had gotten him a computer in the first place, so he could look up recipes and find services and things like that. He just hadn’t realized Armie would use those same skills to research something like this.

Armie nodded. “Thank you, sir.” He rolled to his feet. “Do you need anything else from me?”

Timmy hesitated. Why, he wasn’t sure. He didn’t need anything. And he had already spent more time with his Helper in one night than he usually tried to do in a week. After a moment, he shook his head.

“No. You can go to bed.”

“Good night, sir.” Armie turned and moved towards the door, collecting the empty dinner plate on his way.  

“Armie?” Timmy called out, as Armie opened the door.

“Yes, sir?”

“Thank you,” he said.

“You’re welcome, sir,” said Armie. Then he left, closing the door behind him, and leaving Timmy alone with his thoughts.

For the rest of the week, this became a new pattern. Timmy would return home, have a brief exchange with Armie, collect his dinner, and retreat to his den. After an hour or so, Armie would enter, and Timmy would experience one of the best blow jobs of his life.

Afterwards, Armie would ask, “You’re happy?” And Timmy would say “Yes.”

Each day, it seemed that Armie lingered just a bit longer, his cheek resting on Timmy’s thigh, his eyes closed as Timmy stroked his hair and face. Timmy found himself enjoying those quiet moments in spite of himself.

For a little while each day, he was able to put aside the ache of bitterness, regret, and anger that this Armie was not _his_ Armie, and just...be.

Timmy worked through the weekend, still trying to find a way to deal with his problem client and handle his other clients, but he found himself feeling less anxious to escape his house in favor of the office, which was usually why he worked on weekends.

On Sunday, after a brief conversation about Timmy’s day, Armie handed him a bowl of pasta puttanesca and a smaller one containing dressed salad. Timmy turned to leave, and then hesitated.

Before he could overthink it and talk himself out of it, he whirled back around.  

“Armie?” he asked. Armie had already gone to the sink, but he turned at the sound of his name, looking at Timmy expectantly.

Timmy cleared his throat. “Have you eaten yet?”

“No, sir,” said Armie. “I usually wait until you don’t need anything else from me.”

“Oh.” Timmy thought about that, thought back to all the nights he hadn’t bothered to tell Armie he wasn’t needed. Had Armie waited until he had passed out before eating dinner?

It was starting to become clear how little he knew about his Helper and what his life entailed.

“Would you...why don’t you eat with me? Tonight?” Timmy suggested. He crossed to the kitchen island and set his plates down, then pulled out a stool at one end and sat. He gestured to the stool on the other end. “Grab a plate, have a seat.”

Armie seemed to be frozen for a moment, but then he nodded. “Yes, sir.”

Timmy watched as he busied himself with serving up another helping of salad and steaming puttanesca, collected utensils, and sat at the far end of the island.

They both sat for a moment, not eating. Timmy inhaled. “It smells good,” he said. He picked up his fork and twirled it in the spaghetti. It did smell amazing, and — as he learned when he took a healthy bite — it tasted even better.

“You’re a great cook,” he said, diving back in for more. “Like, seriously good.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Armie. He was watching Timmy closely, but after a few minutes, he hadn’t started eating.

“Why aren’t you eating?” asked Timmy. “Do you not like this? Because it’s great.”

Armie picked up his fork and dug in. They are in silence for a few minutes, and then Timmy set his fork down and stood. Armie followed suit.

“Sit,” said Timmy. “I’m just getting a drink. You want something?”

He opened and closed cabinets, looking for glasses. Armie was suddenly standing behind him. He opened a cabinet door.

“Here, sir,” he said. “I can get you something to drink. What would you like?”

Timmy backed up. He considered protesting that he could do it, but decided to let it go. “Water is fine,” he said. “Thank you.”

He sat back down while Armie got them both glasses of water. Then the silent eating continued.

After a while, Timmy swallowed a mouthful of olives and capers and examined Armie. He noticed Armie was picking the olives out of the dish and setting them to the side.

“You don’t like olives?” Timmy asked.

Armie paused. He looked up, then down at his plate. He looked confused, like he wasn’t sure how he was expected to answer.

Timmy gestured at the pile of olives with his fork. “You’re not eating them. You don’t like the way they taste?”

Armie scooped up a forkful and put them in his mouth.

“No,” Timmy laughed. “I didn’t mean you had to eat them. I was just asking. It’s okay if you don’t like olives.”

Armie swallowed. Timmy thought he saw Armie make a slight face. He found himself suddenly curious.

“What else don’t you like?” he asked. “I mean...if you didn’t have to eat it, you wouldn’t choose to?”

Armie frowned. “You like olives,” he said.

“I do,” said Timmy. “But you don’t. Okay, let’s try a different question: what’s your favorite food?”

“I...like to make pizza,” Armie said, after a moment.

“That’s _my_ favorite,” said Timmy.

“Yes,” said Armie. “I like to make what you like.”

Timmy sighed. He thought, trying to figure out how to get through to Armie. “Hey,” he said, suddenly, “Do you like steak?”

Armie nodded. “I like to make filet mignon,” he said.

“That’s because _I_ like that,” Timmy said. “But you used to like prime rib. Medium rare. Do you still?”

Armie looked off to the side, and seemed far away. When he regained focus, he said, “would you like me to get prime rib to make for dinner tomorrow?”

“No,” said Timmy. “Or...sure. Do that.”

Maybe he’d be able to tell if Armie still liked his old favorites by watching him, since Armie couldn’t seem to express preferences in words.

They finished dinner in silence after that, but the silence felt...less awkward than Timmy might have expected.

As he handed his dishes back to Armie, he said, “Tomorrow, I’d like you to eat with me again. If you want.”

“Yes, sir,” said Armie.

“Okay,” said Timmy. “I’ll...see you in the den in a while?”

Armie nodded.

And so they started eating together. Some days Timmy just allowed the silence to be their companion. Other days he tried to talk to Armie. He learned from observation — since Armie simply did not or could not express it himself — that Armie _did_ still like prime rib, and potatoes, and fried chicken, and that Armie was not a particular fan of cauliflower or broccoli.

He filed that information away. For what, he wasn’t sure.

But the fact remained: those were the same things _his_ Armie liked and disliked.

When he had looked at Armie, for all these years, he had felt betrayed. Had been angry that this person looked like the man he had fallen in love with, but wasn’t him. He had tried with all his might to make Armie into the way he used to be and when that failed, he had fallen into a pattern of resentment and avoidance.

It was true that Armie wasn’t the way he once was. But — if you wanted to make an issue of it — neither was Timmy. Didn’t he recognize that _he_ contained all the current and former pieces of himself in a confusing and contradictory mosaic?

If that were the case, couldn’t that be true about Armie? He wasn’t the same, but...if he had the old Armie’s food preferences, maybe other links existed too. Maybe Timmy had been going about this all wrong. He shouldn’t have been trying to get Armie to be what he once was. He should be trying to get to know Armie as he was now. Find those common links and use them to...move forward.

Could he do it? Could he finally accept that the Armie he knew was gone, and appreciate the Armie who still remained? Get to know _him_ , instead of trying to make him into something else?

Timmy wasn’t sure. His heart still ached, daily, when he thought of what had become of his best friend.

But he was willing to try.

He owed it to Armie to _try_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I raised the chapter count because this one came in twice as long as I intended and covered more emotional ground than felt right, so I cut it in half and rethought the future beats. But I think we're just past the mid-point. Our hero has had to re-imagine his goals and re-commit to his quest. There are still battles ahead.
> 
> Love you all.


	8. The Shift

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things change.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a shorter chapter that also didn’t go where I expected. Like I said, I’m mostly just hanging on for the ride. 
> 
> Thank you so much for all the love you’re giving this story here and on Tumblr. 
> 
> I am behind on replying to comments and will be catching up tonight, but believe me I treasure each and every one.

[Chalamazed](https://twitter.com/chalamazed/status/1108536473559728128)

A couple of weeks passed, as Timmy continued to eat dinner with Armie and pay attention to the things he seemed to like and not like. He asked questions and tried not to be frustrated when Armie’s answers were lacking any real personal content.

He tried putting on music, to see if this Armie shared the old Armie’s musical tastes, but Armie didn’t react to it. He didn’t seem to notice whether Timmy threw on hip hop or jazz or a string quartet. Timmy realized that music tended to have an emotional resonance, and the fact that Armie barely seemed to notice it was on...was discouraging.

Nevertheless, he found himself checking the clock while at work not because he wondered how much longer he could stay at work, but wondering how soon he could get away and go home. He actually looked _forward_ to being at home now. It was an odd sensation, one he had never experienced before in his adult life.

It was on a subsequent Friday night after dinner that Timmy found himself feeling a little...unsettled. He was enjoying the after-dinner time he was spending with Armie, that much he had to admit. The man was _talented_. Timmy hadn’t asked, but he suspected Armie had continued his “research.” And the thought of Armie, watching videos, thinking about him...well, it _did_ something to Timmy.

At the same time, he was feeling like their time together was so...one-sided. He had been trying to push the boundaries of how Armie would respond verbally, and sometimes he thought it was working. He would ask what Armie had done during the day, and Armie would tell him. He would compliment Armie on something and ask about how Armie learned to do it, and Armie would explain. Other times, like whenever he tried to ask Armie something personal, Armie seemed confused or started parroting rules of being a Helper.

Timmy just wished...he didn’t know what he wished. There were moments, when he was touching Armie, that he thought he saw Armie being _happy._ Like actually happy, even though he knew Armie couldn’t really feel happiness.

That night, when Armie walked into the den, Timmy held up his hand and stopped him before he could kneel.

“Wait,” he said. “I don’t...I think maybe tonight let’s do something else.”

Armie seemed uncertain. He took a step backwards.

“Would you like me to leave you alone, sir?” he asked. Did he look disappointed, or was Timmy imagining it?

“No,” said Timmy quickly. “I just meant that maybe...why don’t you sit? We could watch a little television. Do you ever watch television?” He patted the seat next to him.

“You’d like me to sit...there?” Armie didn’t move.

“Yeah. I mean, if you don’t want to you don’t have to.” Timmy held his breath, waiting to see what Armie would do. He had purposefully not said _I want_.

After one more beat, Armie moved to sit beside Timmy. Timmy looked at him. He was sitting stiffly — or as stiffly as he could on a plush sofa.

Timmy picked up the remote and flipped the channels. “What should we watch?” he asked.

“What you would like, sir,” said Armie.

Timmy refrained from rolling his eyes. He found an entertaining sitcom from their childhood in syndication, and perked up. This was something they had watched together, laughed at together. Maybe watching it now would help Armie remember something.

He waited, trying not to openly watch Armie for any reaction.

“I remember this one,” said Timmy, after a few minutes. “This is the episode where the kid runs a gambling ring out of the garage. He made so much money before he got caught...do you remember how we tried to figure out if we could do it better, and _not_ get caught?” he asked.

Armie frowned, and then shook his head. “No, sir. I’m sorry.”

Timmy let out a shaky breath that he didn’t know he was holding. “That’s okay,” he said. “It was a dumb episode, anyway.”

He let it play for a little while longer, and when Armie didn’t seem to be getting anything out of it, he picked up the remote and started flipping again. He landed on a cooking show. That could work. Armie cooked, maybe he’d find it interesting.

They sat quietly for a while. Timmy kept shooting glances to his right, checking Armie’s responses. Armie simply watched, without much of a change of expression. Timmy felt the disappointment creeping in. Maybe he shouldn’t have attempted to do things differently.

After a while longer, he turned off the television. Turning to Armie, he asked, “Were you surprised that I asked you to sit? You seemed surprised.”

Armie didn’t respond right away. Then, he said, “If you’d like me to sit, sir, it is my pleasure to sit.”

Timmy pursed his lips. “That’s not what I meant,” he said. “You seemed surprised that I asked you to eat with me that first time. And...back that first night that you...when I asked you to kneel, you were confused when I asked you to come closer. Why?”

Armie didn’t speak for so long, Timmy thought he wasn’t going to answer. But then he dropped his gaze to his hands, which were resting in his lap. Very quietly, he said, “It doesn't please you when I touch you or when I am around too much.”

A chill hit Timmy, working its way from his spine into his stomach. Armie sounded so...sad. _Shit_ , he thought. _I keep forgetting. It’s not that he doesn’t feel_ any _emotion, it’s that he can’t feel_ strong _emotions._

He _could_ feel happy. He _could_ — and did — feel sad. Maybe he _did_ feel lonely, the way Timmy had wondered that day in the kitchen, when he had found Armie staring into space. He was trained not to consider his emotions, to ignore them, to sublimate them to Timmy’s needs, but...they were there. They may have been almost wholly tied to Timmy, but _they were there_.

And if they were there…

He’d been an even bigger asshole than he had thought. For nine fucking years.

Timmy reached out and picked up Armie’s left hand. He folded it in both of his own, watching Armie carefully.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m really — Armie, you have no idea how sorry I am. I’ve been such a dick to you, and...nothing was your fault and I’ve been treating you like it was.”

Armie looked down at their hands, and then up at Timmy. “I am here to make your life easier,” he said. “You don’t need to apologize because I fail to fulfill my purpose.”

“Oh, Armie,” Timmy sighed. He leaned over and laid his cheek on Armie’s shoulder. “You didn’t fail at anything. I’m the one who forgot my part of this. I knew it, what I was supposed to do, and I didn’t — or couldn’t — do it.”

He turned Armie’s palm upwards and began to trace lines around it with his fingers. He circled his initials, printed starkly on Armie’s wrist.

“I was so...I was so _mad_. Not at you, at the rest of the world. And I was lost. When you came back, and weren’t...the same...I couldn’t handle it. I pushed you away, and then I ignored you, all because I was too weak to deal with the reality of the world. So I’m the one who fucked up, trying to make you be someone you’re not rather than just appreciating you and getting to know who you are.” He took a deep breath. “I want to change that. If it’s okay with you.”

Armie turned his head and looked at Timmy, but didn’t respond.

“I’m going to...I think you like it when I touch you. And I think you like it when you’re making me feel good. I want to see if you like other things, too. But I want you to tell me if something doesn’t feel good,” said Timmy. “If you don’t like something, or if it hurts or bothers you, okay?”

Armie hesitated, and then nodded. “Yes, sir, if that is what you want.”

“It is, but...” Timmy considered his next words. “What I want,” he said, “is for you to be completely honest with me.”

“A Helper is always honest,” said Armie.

“I know you can’t...you can’t _lie,_ ” Timmy said. He squeezed Armie’s hand gently. “But I want you to tell me everything about what you are thinking and feeling. Even if you think it’s not supposed to matter, or you aren’t supposed to pay attention to it...I want to know.”

Armie frowned slightly, and Timmy waited. He had begun to see that, often, if he gave Armie enough time to think and turn things over in his mind, that he was better able to actually respond.

“I will tell you everything about what...I feel,” said Armie. It seemed to be difficult for him to say.

“Good,” said Timmy. “How does this feel?” He ran his fingers over Armie’s palm again, his wrist, his fingers.

Armie said, “I feel you touching my hand.”

Timmy bit back a sigh. “Okay,” he said. That’s _what_ you feel, literally. But _how_ does it _make_ you feel? Not on your hands, but…” He let go of Armie’s hand and splayed a palm over his chest. “In here.”

Again, he waited.

“It feels...warm?” Armie said, finally.

“ _Good,_ ” Timmy said. He grinned wide. He couldn’t help it. “That’s so good, Armie.”

Armie blinked at him and smiled slightly back. Then, to Timmy’s surprise, he took Timmy’s hand and moved it down to his stomach.

“In here, it feels...like...insects.” Armie’s look was so intense, Timmy knew he was trying his hardest to do what Timmy has asked.

“Like what?” Timmy tried to interpret what Armie was telling him. “Can you try to tell me a little more?”

Armie nodded. “It feels like insects are flying around in my stomach, but it doesn’t hurt.” He moves Timmy’s hand back up to his chest. “And…my heart beats faster at the same time.”

“Oh. _Oh._ ” Timmy laughed. “You mean it tickles, it flutters? And your heart…” He trailed off and swallowed. “That means you’re excited,” he said.

“Excited,” said Armie. “Yes. I feel...excited.”

“You’re doing so well,” said Timmy, trying to ignore his _own_ feelings, the way his own heart beat faster and his own stomach fluttered. “Do you always feel this way when I touch you? Or maybe when you touch me?”

Another pause, and then Armie said, “I always feel warm when you touch me, or when you let me touch you. Sometimes I feel excited.”

Timmy closed his eyes. He hadn’t been wrong. Armie was enjoying their encounters even if he was trained not to pay attention to his enjoyment.

Maybe _that_ was how it worked, Timmy thought. Maybe Helpers didn’t lose ability to feel, they just...stopped noticing it. And if he could remind Armie how to pay attention again…

Well, there were possibilities there. That’s all Timmy was willing to entertain at this point. To assume any further was dangerous, because he didn’t think he could take another round of disappointment. Better to just appreciate what little progress he could make.

He opened his eyes and reached for the remote. He turned the television back on.

Then he closed his hands around Armie’s again. “Tonight,” he said, “Let’s just hang out, okay? I want to be around you. In general. I know it seemed like before I didn’t, but that’s different now.”

“Yes, sir,” said Armie. But he seemed to relax back into the cushions a bit, for the first time that evening. After a few minutes, he pointed at the television. “I could make that, if we had an air fryer, and if you would like,” he said.

Timmy bit the inside of his lip, he was so surprised that Armie was engaged with what they were watching.

“Get one,” he said. “The air fryer. That looks good.”

Appreciate progress, no matter how small, Timmy reminded himself. He set his head on Armie’s shoulder again, and continued to play with Armie’s hand. They didn’t talk any further, but after a while, Armie dropped his head to rest on top of Timmy’s.

Timmy smiled, but didn’t say anything.

This established a new pattern. Timmy would get home from work, they’d eat dinner, and then retreat to the den to watch television and just be together.

Timmy slightly regretted the loss of the regular mind-blowing orgasms Armie had been drawing out of him, but he wanted to focus more on making Armie comfortable with him than on anything else, so he dealt with the absence.

Besides, sitting curled up with Armie — sometimes resting against his side, sometimes with his feet or head in Armie’s lap, with Armie massaging his instep or playing with his hair — was starting to make him feel...settled...in a way he hadn’t in a long time.

It was another Friday night, a few weeks later, that Armie did something that changed everything.

Timmy had sacked out on the sofa, waiting for Armie to finish the dishes and join him. It had been a long week. His client was once again demanding a substantial investment in something that Timmy absolutely _knew_ was a fucking terrible idea, and he had spent long hours trying to put together information and analysis to convince them of this. Because he wasn’t willing to sacrifice his time with Armie, he had started coming home, spending time with his Helper, and then returning to work in his home office once Armie had gone to bed.

That night, he had ended up having to stay later at the office, and had gotten home to have a late dinner. So, having gotten only two-three hours of sleep a night for a week, he was exhausted. As soon as his head hit the cushion, he fell asleep.

When he woke up, it was because he was in motion. His first instinct was panic, but then he inhaled a lungful of Armie and immediately relaxed. He turned his face into the scent, and found himself scrunched against Armie’s chest.

As he regained consciousness, he realized that Armie had scooped him up and was carrying him — Jesus, his Helper was so fucking _strong_ — into his bedroom. He gripped at Armie’s shirt with one hand and let himself enjoy the sensation of being held close.

He kept his eyes closed until Armie lowered him onto his bed and pulled the covers up over him, clothes and all. Then he opened them to look directly into those beautiful grey eyes.

_When had he started to think of them as beautiful? He used to hate them, because they weren’t Armie’s arresting blue._

Armie started to stand up, but Timmy reached his arms around Armie’s neck to hold him.

“Wait,” he whispered. “Don’t go.”

Armie paused, bent over Timmy’s bed. “Yes, sir,” he said. “But you should sleep.”

“I didn’t get to see you much tonight,” Timmy said, his voice thick and drowsy. “I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have to apologize, sir,” said Armie.

“I know,” said Timmy. “I’m going to anyway.” He released Armie so Armie could stand, but he took Armie’s hand. “Will you stay? For a while?”

Armie nodded. “Of course, sir,” he said. He continued to stand beside the bed.

“No, you don’t have to _stand_ there.” Timmy pulled the covers back on the other side of the bed. “You can...if you want…” he trailed off, realizing that he didn’t know how to finish the sentence.

It turned out that he didn’t need to. Armie nodded, and then moved around to the other side of the bed. He slid under the covers and laid his head on the pillow, settling on his back.

Timmy reached out and turned off the bedside lamp, then turned to curl on his side, facing Armie. Armie’s eyes were open, and he was staring up at the ceiling.

“Are you tired?” Timmy asked.

Armie hesitated, thinking, and then he said, “Yes, sir.”

“If you fall asleep, that’s okay,” said Timmy. “Can I...come closer?”

“Yes, sir,” said Armie, this time without the hesitation.

Timmy scooted closer, until he could wrap an arm around Armie’s torso. Armie lifted his arm to allow Timmy to snuggle into his chest, and then wrapped it around Timmy’s shoulders. Timmy drew in a breath, calmed instantly by having Armie surrounding him.

When had that happened, he wondered? When had he started thinking of Armie as _comfort_ again, rather than as something that caused him pain? Sometime between the puttanesca and the nights in front of the television, the bitterness and ache had virtually disappeared and been replaced by...something warmer.

As one, they let out a long, contented sigh.

Timmy smiled as he began to drift towards sleep. He knew that he and Armie still had a ways to go, that Armie was still struggling against the walls of his training and the restraints of his Helper biology, but there was no doubt in Timmy’s mind that Armie was trying, too.

Just as sleep overtook him, in that space between reality and fantasy, Timmy heard Armie speak softly. His eyelids were heavy, and he was only half sure that what he had heard wasn’t a dream. He squeezed Armie tighter and smiled into his chest.

He could have sworn that Armie said, “I feel...happy.”


	9. The Date

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Timmy has a wake up call.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A long, sort of rambling chapter full of internal dialogue because our poor Timmy is very much in his head right now. 
> 
> Thanks to those of you who put up with my rampant insecurities and who help me make less of a mess of what comes out of my head. I can’t live without the lot of you. 
> 
> Any remaining mess is solely on me. 
> 
> Fiction, of course.

[Chalamazed](https://twitter.com/chalamazed/status/1108536473559728128)

The next morning, Timmy regained consciousness in stages, unsure at each stage what exactly was happening.

He first became aware of a sensation of being warm, and safe, and comfortable. There was an unfamiliar gentle rise and fall, a slow, steady _wooshing_ and a reassuring _thump-thump, thump-thump, thump-thump_ under his cheek.

He smiled and sighed in contentment, feeling better than he could remember feeling in...ever...even though he wasn’t sure why.

Whatever was wrapped around him tightened, and he burrowed his face deeper into its cushion, inhaling deeply a scent that made him uncertain whether he wanted to sink back into oblivion or wake up to investigate further.

After a while, his eyes fluttered open on their own, and he blinked at the light streaming in the windows of his bedroom. He also had a view of a salmon-colored surface and...a hairy arm.

_Armie._

Timmy lifted his head slightly and came face to face with the scruffy morning jaw of his Helper. Armie turned his head and peered down at Timmy.

“Good morning, sir,” he said. “Are you ready to wake up?”

Timmy grinned at him. “What if I said no?”

Armie paused. “Then I would ask you if you still wished me to stay.”

“Mmmm.” Timmy’s arm was wrapped around Armie’s waist, and he tightened his embrace. He rubbed his chin across Armie’s pectoral muscle. “You make a very good pillow.”

Another pause, and then Armie said, “Thank you, sir.”

Timmy laughed. He felt a sense of elation that hadn’t been a part of his available emotions since he was…since _before_.

His stomach growled, and then, as if in answer, so did Armie’s. Timmy moved his hand to splay his palm across Armie’s firm stomach —shit, his Helper was in good shape — and raised an eyebrow. “Sounds like we should both get up before we starve to death,” he said.

Reluctantly, he sat up, shoving his hair out of his face and yawning. He tugged at the collar of his shirt and made a face.

“Ugh, I slept in my clothes,” he said. He was still wearing the jeans and t-shirt he had put on after work, though at some point during the night he had at least managed to remove his belt.

Armie rolled to his feet. “I’m sorry, sir,” he said. “Next time would you like me to be sure you are dressed for bed?”

Timmy blinked up at Armie, his mind traveling to a _next time_. A next time that Armie would carry him to bed? A next time that he’d sleep curled around his Helper?

A next time that Armie would...undress him?

“I...sure,” he managed, attempting to squash the sudden thrill he felt at the idea of Armie pulling his shirt over his head, unbuttoning his pants, his fingers skimming along—

He cleared his throat and pulled the blankets more fully over his lap.

“You slept in your clothes, too,” Timmy pointed out. Armie was also wearing jeans and a t-shirt. “Doesn’t it make you feel kind of...rumpled?”

Armie frowned. “I feel hungry,” Armie said. “And rested.”

Timmy rolled his eyes. “That’s not what I...you feel rested? Then you slept okay here?”

“Yes, sir,” Armie said, nodding. “Your bed is very comfortable. Shall I prepare breakfast?”

“Okay,” Timmy said. He watched Armie go, then flopped back onto the pillows.

He didn’t know what had possessed him to ask Armie to stay the night before. There had been something about Armie carrying him to bed, being gentle with him, that had made him feel...cared for. He hadn’t wanted to let go of that feeling.

It was okay, he reasoned. He wasn’t sure if Helpers did that sort of thing — he didn’t recall _Vanda_ ever doing something like that — but it wasn’t all that different than he and Armie sharing a room for years. The proximity had brought Timmy solace then, no reason it couldn’t do the same now, in a similar way.

Of course, it wasn’t like he planned to make a habit of it. Things were going well as they were, and their routine had become something that enriched Timmy’s life rather than plagued it. He felt like he was beginning to be able to accept Armie, to help him recover some of his...humanity...that had been lost all those years ago. Even if this was as far as Armie ever got, they could exist this way.

 _Timmy_ could exist this way, and maybe finally bring Armie some comfort as well. That was what he wanted, after all, and why he had started making an effort. He wanted to make it up to Armie, bring him whatever limited happiness he could experience. If, in the process, it healed some of Timmy’s wounds...that was a bonus.

Unfortunately, for the next two nights, Timmy had trouble sleeping. He tossed and turned and ended up walking around with circles under his eyes, exhausted.

On the third night, after watching a show about various types of barbecue, Timmy yawned and stretched. His eyes had been drifting shut for the last twenty minutes as Armie played with his hair.

“I’m sorry,” he said, at Armie’s questioning look when he sat up. “I’m fading. I haven’t been sleeping well.”

Armie frowned. “How can I help you sleep better, sir?” he asked. “I could make you a cup of tea.”

“No, that’s okay,” said Timmy. “I’m so exhausted right now I’ll probably just pass out. Thanks, though.”

“You’re welcome, sir.” Armie stood. “If you don’t need anything more from me, I will see you in the morning.”

Timmy nodded. “Sounds good.”

He waited for Armie to leave the den and then headed for bed. After brushing his teeth and changing, he crawled under the covers and turned out the light.

But sleep eluded him.

Eventually, he threw the covers back and stood, cursing. Not sure what he was intending to do, he wandered out into the darkened apartment. He ventured into the kitchen, thinking he’d maybe make that cup of tea, but once there, he changed his mind and restlessly marched out into the living area.

Standing at the window, he looked out over the city. From up here, with the lights shining, it looked beautiful. He knew that down below, up close, there was ugliness, but from his perch at the top, he could pretend that ugliness didn’t exist.

He stood for a while, and then shivered. Clad only in his boxers to sleep, he hadn’t bothered to put on a robe before beginning his midnight roaming. Thinking he should head back to bed and try to sleep again, or at least to get a robe, he turned.

Armie was standing a few feet behind him.

Timmy jumped at the sight, then placed a hand on his chest. “Fuck. You scared me.”

“Sorry, sir,” said Armie. “That was not my intention. Is everything okay?”

“Yeah,” Timmy said. “Couldn’t sleep, that’s all. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“You did not wake me,” said Armie.

“Oh.” Timmy tilted his head to the side. “You couldn’t sleep either?”

Armie looked away. “No. I often don’t.”

He often didn’t...sleep? Timmy wondered briefly if that was a Helper thing, if they didn’t need as much sleep as regular people. Armie had always been a fine sleeper when they were kids, but maybe it was something they grew out of, like emotions.

Or maybe it was something else.

“Usually, or just lately?” Timmy heard himself ask.

There was a long pause. “The last few nights,” Armie said, finally. “I have gotten less sleep.”

“You know,” said Timmy slowly, “when we were kids, we always slept well when we shared a room. When you went away, I couldn’t sleep for weeks, not properly. It took a long time to get used to being alone in our room.”

Armie merely regarded him, but did not respond. He rarely did when Timmy brought up their pre-training past.

“Would you want to try staying with me again?” Timmy asked. “We both slept pretty good that night.”

“If you wish, sir,” said Armie.

“I think...I’d like to try it,” said Timmy. “As long as it's okay with you.”

“If it pleases you, it pleases me,” said Armie.

“Right. Okay, then...it pleases me.”

He led the way back to his bedroom and slid under the covers. Armie joined him. At first, he kept to his side of the bed, curled on his side, facing the wall. He could hear Armie breathing behind him. He kept listening for the breathing to change, deepen or slow, to indicate Armie had fallen asleep, but it remained consistent.

After a while, he gave up. He rolled over and shifted closer to Armie. Wordlessly, Armie lifted his arm and allowed Timmy to curl into him, like that first night. He immediately relaxed, feeling his muscles loosen and his body begin to sink into sleep.

This time, when he descended into unconsciousness, it was with Armie’s fingers in his hair.

It was by unspoken agreement that Armie started spending each night thereafter in Timmy’s bed. Timmy wasn’t sure exactly what he was doing. He knew he liked having Armie there, that he slept better when he was able to curl up against his solid body. He knew that Armie seemed content to continue the practice as well, getting more and more comfortable wrapping his arms around Timmy in the night.

So...he decided it was fine. Maybe once his job got a little less stressful, once the _Childress Group_ fired him or went bankrupt, they’d go back to their original rooms. In the meantime...he was just going to take the comfort his Helper was providing and hope that he was giving some comfort in return.

Work continued to plague him, however. He couldn’t seem to make any headway with _Childress_. They seemed bound and determined to lose as much money as they could as often as they could. The worst part of it was that they were now requesting to go back and reinvest in some of the same ventures that had failed them previously, and nothing Timmy presented had any impact on their commitment.

He griped to Armie about it regularly, especially because he continued to bring his work on that account home. Armie would listen patiently, occasionally offering a sympathetic comment or ask how he could help. Of course, there was nothing Armie could do. Timmy was fairly sure he barely understood what Timmy’s job actually entailed, let alone the intricacies of investment strategy.

The old Armie would have understood and probably would have had ideas. But Timmy didn’t let himself entertain thoughts like that anymore, even when they flitted, unbidden, through his mind. He just made himself appreciate Armie’s attempts to relax him and calm him when he was particularly agitated about it.

It was a Tuesday afternoon a few weeks later when Arthur Flint called Timmy into his office. Timmy scrambled to assemble his most recent numbers on _all_ of his accounts, so that he could demonstrate that it was only _The Childress Group_ that was tanking. He also grabbed the last stack of analysis he had done in the vain attempt to persuade them away from their disastrous investments. He assumed Flint was planning to rake him across the coals for it, and he was going to do everything in his power to avoid getting fired.

But when he entered the office, Flint merely beamed at him from behind his mammoth desk.

“Timothée,” he said, mispronouncing Timmy’s full name, as usual. “Thank you for coming in. Please, have a seat.”

Timmy gingerly set his pile of paperwork on the edge of the mahogany desk and sat on the edge of the plush leather guest chair. Flint sat back in his own chair and swiveled back and forth. He laced his fingers together and regarded Timmy with a smile.

“Sir,” Timmy said, breaking the silence, “I’m glad you asked to see me. I had wanted to ask you about an account that I’ve been struggling with — I’m sure you know I’ve been struggling with _The Childress Group_ — and see if you had any advice for this type of client—”

Flint held up a hand. “I’m sure you’re doing what you can with _Childress_ ,” he said. “I’m not worried. You’ll ride this out with them, and it will work out in the end.”

Timmy closed his mouth. He was more than a little surprised that his boss wasn’t more concerned that one of the firm’s major new accounts was sinking faster than the Titanic. It was true that the _rest_ of his accounts were earning twice as much as _Childress_ was losing, but that was still an uncomfortable margin. For him.

Flint seemed to have something else on his mind, however.

“You recall that Friday is the firm’s thirtieth anniversary?” he asked.

Right. Timmy did recall, now that Flint had mentioned it, though he hadn’t been thinking about it recently. It had been in the works for a year. They had rented out a premiere event space, the invitations were gilded, there would be dinner and dancing and a host of speeches. He wasn’t looking forward to it, but was obligated to attend.

“Of course,” he said, nodding.

“It should be a good event,” Flint said. “Most of the major clients will have representatives in attendance, and we have invited potential clients, as well.”

Aha. That’s what the agenda for this conversation was. Flint wanted him to be prepared to be “on” for clients and potential clients. Well...that was easy.

“Sounds like a perfect opportunity for networking,” said Timmy, sitting back in his chair with a smile, more comfortable now that he knew what was expected of him. “Do you have any targets you’d like me to study up on?”

“I do,” said Flint. He placed his hand on a piece of paper in front of him, swiveled it around, and pushed it across the desk. “Here are three you can start with. I think they’d line up well with your portfolio. Also, feel free to ask Sylvia for the guest list. If you see anyone else you’d like a crack at, let me know and I’ll reserve them for you.”

Timmy felt the warm flush of success as he examined the short list. These were _whales_. And he had just been given carte blanche to poach from anyone else’s list. This was a big deal. The next step forward in his career.

He grinned at Flint. “Thank you, Arthur,” he said. “I appreciate your confidence, and I won’t let you down.”

“I’m sure you won’t. But there is one other matter we should discuss.” Flint leaned back in his chair again, and steepled his fingers. Timmy felt his pulse jump. Was he going to get scolded for _Childress_ after all?

“What’s on your mind, sir?” he asked.

“Are you planning on bringing someone on Friday?”

The question took Timmy by surprise. He did often bring a date to firm events. It was expected, he knew that much, and so he made arrangements. It hadn’t even crossed his mind this time, however, and the thought of bringing someone made him feel...nervous somehow.

“I hadn’t thought about it,” said Timmy, deciding to be honest. “I suppose I’ll be fairly busy networking, so maybe it’s best that I—”

“Nonsense,” said Flint with a frown. “You need to be escorted. She can discuss social matters with spouses while you take care of business. It’s how these things are done.”

Flint was right. In general, it _was_ how things were done. He would get down to business with potential clients, and his date was expected to schmooze the client’s husband or wife. Attack from both sides. The dates he chose knew this.

“Yes, sir,” he said. “I’ll make arrangements.”

Flint nodded. “Good,” he said. “And...Timothée, it might be time to think about settling down. So that you are bringing the same person to these events, rather than just a current...flavor.”

Timmy did his best not to blush. He nodded again. “I’ll keep that in mind, Arthur.”

“Thank you,” said Flint. “I know I can count on you.”

At the clear dismissal, Timmy gathered up his things and retreated back to his office, shutting the door behind him. He sat at his desk and pressed his palms against his eyes.

He could arrange a date for Friday, no problem. He’d just call up one of the women he’d been out with in the past year and see if they were free. Most of them understood the type of call this would be — _I wasn’t thinking about you, this isn’t us moving forward, I need someone on my arm, you’ll get dinner and drinks out of it, and maybe some action afterwards if you’re interested_ — and wouldn’t expect anything more.

The trouble was...well, there were two problems, really.

First of all, Arthur Flint was essentially telling him to find a wife. Timmy wasn’t close to ready for that. There wasn’t anyone he liked enough to even consider seeing long term, and the idea of going out and trying to find someone — how did anyone do that, anyhow? Was he supposed to cruise the bars or start using a fucking app or something? — left him cold.

Second of all, this was further complicated by the fact that the very idea of entering a long term relationship with someone, or even taking someone out for a night, was making him feel sort of...guilty. He felt like doing so would be _cheating_. On Armie. Which was fucking ridiculous.

Armie wasn’t his _boyfriend_ , for God’s sake.

Armie was his Helper. Maybe, in a loose sense of the word, they were approaching a kind of friendship. And even that was iffy, since Timmy wasn’t fully clear on how well Armie could reciprocate feelings of friendship. He had been doing well identifying his feelings at Timmy’s request, but it was apparent that in spite of Timmy’s original hopes, Armie wasn’t feeling anything more than he had before...he was just learning to express what mild emotions he did have.

Timmy could live with all of that. He _was_ living with that. He had learned to accept Armie for what he was, and to enjoy what Armie could provide. It was enough.

So that was that. There was no reason for Timmy to feel _guilty_ for considering taking a date to the firm’s party, or anywhere else.

Armie was _not_ his boyfriend.

Okay, so _maybe_ Armie was spending every night with him now. Maybe Timmy wrapped himself around Armie like an octopus and didn’t let go until he absolutely had to the next morning. Maybe he felt warm, and safe, and connected with Armie beside him. Maybe his favorite moment of the day was when Armie would blink at him sleepily in the morning and say _good morning, sir, how did you sleep_ , their faces inches apart.

Maybe sometimes he daydreamed about Armie waking him up with a kiss instead of a gentle shake.

A smile drifted across Timmy’s face at the thought. He wondered how Armie would react if Timmy kissed _him._ Would he just blink at Timmy in surprise, or would he respond, the way he responded to their nighttime caresses? Would he sigh into Timmy’s mouth? Would he enjoy it and say that it gave him butterflies in his stomach?

Timmy sighed, imagining the look on Armie’s face, that gentle smile of his, the way he would look at Timmy, his long lashes framing those haunting grey eyes.

 _Fuck_. It hit Timmy like an ocean wave. Was he...falling in love with Armie again?

That couldn’t be. It would be pointless, dooming him to heartbreak. There was no possibility of a future in such an endeavor. Even though people quietly engaged in intimate activities with Helpers, it would be completely socially unacceptable to be in a fucking relationship with your Helper — that wasn’t allowed. He may have entertained some fantasy when he was sixteen, but that’s all it ever was, and he knew better now.

Besides, you couldn’t love someone who was incapable of loving you back, could you? He swallowed hard and squeezed his eyes shut, trying to sort it out in his mind. He thought over the time he had been spending with his Helper, the way things had shifted between them. The way he had stopped looking at Armie as the shell of the person he had lost, and instead started to see him as he was. Had come to appreciate and feel connected to _this_ Armie...or maybe it was that his former connection had been reborn as he was able to see that Armie wasn’t _gone_ , just changed.

With some similarities, such as his intent focus on Timmy’s comfort and happiness. He believed that, in spite of the Helper obligation, in his limited way, Armie cared for him. The way he seemed so content when they were together, particularly when they slept, the way he ran his fingers through Timmy’s hair, the way he—

 _No, no, no, no..._ he couldn’t do this to himself again.

He hadn’t meant for things to go that far. He had just wanted to find a way to not be miserable any longer. He had wanted to make up for ignoring Armie and leaving him in his lonely existence for so many years.

He had wanted... _shit_ , he had wanted Armie to feel loved.

Yes, he had royally fucked this up. He hadn’t intended to — once again — make Armie into something he wasn’t, this time in Timmy’s mind more than in reality.

But it had happened, and now he had to deal with it. He had to deal with it by setting some boundaries. Starting with ending this practice of sleeping next to Armie each night, as much as the thought made him sick to his stomach. Next, getting a date to this fucking function. And finally...he needed to remind his body that it could, and should, respond to someone who wasn’t his Helper.

He flipped through his phone contacts, searching through the list of women he had taken out most recently — shit, the last time had been _months_ ago, no wonder he had fucked up — and landed on one name. He smiled. She was perfect.

He didn’t call, he sent a text. It was more her style.

_Hey, beautiful, you have plans Friday night?_

The response came back quickly.

_Maybe. Make it worth my while, and I’ll cancel._

Yes, Maika was perfect for this. She’d be an appropriately charming companion for the night, would be up for some after-party recreational activities without expecting anything afterwards. He’d worry about exploring someone more permanent after this weekend.

So he texted Maika the details. _I’ll pick you up at seven,_ he typed, without waiting for a confirmation, and she responded with a winky-face and kissy-face emoji.

There. Done. Now he just had to figure out how to wean himself off of Armie.

* * *

Maika was giggling as Timmy punched in the code to unlock his door.

“Seventeen, two, nine, six, twenty-seven…” she chanted.

“Fuck,” he said, after hitting the wrong numbers for the third time in a row. “Cut it out, it’s going to lock up and send an alert to the front desk if I screw it up again.”

She gripped his left arm tighter and leaned into him, whispering into his ear. “Green, purple, A, M, dinosaur.”

He shook his head with a wry smile and finally managed to get the code right. The lock slid open, and he gripped the door handle.

“You okay to walk?” he asked. “We’re about to move.”

She scrunched up her face. “Hang on.” Her fingers dug into his forearm as she leaned down and unfastened the straps on her heels. Looping them around a finger, she straightened up, now several inches shorter. “Carry on,” she said, giggling again.

He pushed open the door and led her inside. She was surprisingly steady on her feet. Maybe it had been the heels that was making her topple.

Or maybe, he realized, she wasn’t as drunk as she claimed and just wanted an excuse to hang onto him.

Well, that was fine. Wasn’t this part of the point of calling Maika? Because he knew she would be down for whatever, and he needed...someone like that?

The living area was dark. Timmy found himself wondering where Armie was. Had he gone to bed? That morning, Timmy had told Armie that he had an event and would be back late, that Armie shouldn’t wait up. He hadn’t specified that Armie should go to sleep in his own bed. He probably should have.

Especially since, despite every intention to do so, Timmy hadn’t yet stopped sleeping beside his Helper. Each night, he had tried to figure out how to cut the cord. He rehearsed it repeatedly in his head.

_Armie, you can go to bed. I don’t need you tonight._

He couldn’t bring himself to say it like that. It would hurt Armie, wouldn’t it? To tell him he didn’t need him?

_Armie, I’m feeling a little under the weather, I think I need the bed to myself tonight._

That wouldn’t work, because Armie would want to make sure that he was okay.

 _Armie, I’m headed to bed, I’ll see you in the morning_.

The last one was what he had settled on. He worried that Armie might still be a little hurt, but it was going to have to happen if he was to establish these boundaries. Boundaries were good. They were necessary. For his sanity, at least, and for Armie’s too.

And yet, each night, when it was time for bed, Timmy had looked at Armie and simply...couldn’t do it. Instead, he had just taken Armie’s hand, said _let’s go to bed_ , and felt shitty about how much he didn’t want there to be any boundaries at all.

Now that he had acknowledged it, the way he had started to ache for Armie was getting out of control.

Which was precisely why tonight was necessary, he reminded himself. He needed to break the spell, and a night with Maika should do the trick.

“Do you want something to drink?” he asked.

“Scotch?” she asked.

“I was thinking water,” said Timmy dryly. He rolled his eyes. “I’m not sure I have scotch.”

That was a lie, of course he had scotch. He hadn’t been drinking barely at all recently, but even when he was, Armie always kept his liquor cabinet well-stocked.

Maika pouted at him, so he huffed his defeat and said, “come on, there should be something in the den.”

They moved past the kitchen and down the hall. “Your place is so nice,” she said. “How come you’ve never brought me back here?”

 _Because I used to hate it here_ , he thought.

“No reason,” he said. “The den is through here.”

He pushed open the door and froze in the doorway, having trouble understanding what he was seeing.

The lamps were lit.

The television was on, tuned to a cooking show.

Armie was stretched out on the sofa, his head on a pillow and his feet hanging off the other end, snoring softly.

Timmy smiled at the sight. This was the first indication he had that Armie was _doing_ something when he wasn’t home, rather than just waiting for Timmy to arrive with more instruction. And the fact that what Armie was doing was _watching television_ in Timmy’s den, the way they did every single night?

Armie didn’t even really watch television. Timmy shook his head, imagining his Helper wandering around the apartment alone, then settling in here. Did that mean he _missed_ Timmy? His heart melted.

“Who’s that?” whispered Maika.

Timmy jumped at the sound of her voice. Despite the fact that she was still clinging to his arm, he had completely forgotten she was there. In that moment, he wished — really, _really_ wished — she wasn’t. He wanted to kneel down beside Armie, wake him up slowly, and take him to bed.

But that wasn’t in the cards, and was exactly the opposite intention of the evening.

“That’s Armie,” Timmy responded. “He’s my—”

“Oh, he’s your Helper,” said Maika. “Right, you did say you had one. Why is he in here?”

Timmy shrugged, not liking the implication. “He’s allowed. Hang on, I need to wake him up and...send him to bed. He was probably waiting up to see if I needed anything, and fell asleep.”

He extricated himself from Maika’s grip and crossed to the sofa, leaning down to place a hand on Armie’s shoulder.

“Hey,” he said quietly. “Armie. Wake up.” He meant to shake Armie’s shoulder, but instead gave it a slow stroke.

Armie drew in a breath, and his eyes fluttered open. He smiled. Timmy smiled back.

“You’re...back,” said Armie. He pushed himself upright, swinging his legs around to rest on the floor. “How was your evening, sir?”

“It was good,” said Timmy. “Thank you. You didn’t have to wait up, remember?”

Armie nodded. “I wanted to make sure you arrived home safely and had everything you needed. I—”

Maika, who had been examining the bottles on the bar, set one down heavily, and Armie whipped his head around, going silent.

Timmy sighed. “Maika,” he said, “this is Armie, my...Helper. Maika was my date this evening,” he explained, the words coming in a rush. _Shit_. He hadn’t mentioned to Armie that he was bringing a date.

Which he didn’t have to, of course, because it was none of Armie’s business.

Armie stood, his posture rigid, his face impassive. “Nice to meet you,” he said. “Sir, is there anything else you need tonight?”

“No,” said Timmy. “You can...you can go to bed.”

Timmy winced at Armie’s blank-faced nod, and cursed himself for feeling shitty about bringing a girl home. But he had no reason to feel guilty, he reminded himself. No reason at all.

Armie wished them goodnight and departed, turning right and heading down the darkened hallway towards his own room.

As soon as he left, Maika tilted her head to the side. “He’s darling,” she said. “I’ve always wanted a Helper. How long have you had him?”

Timmy stared at the empty doorway for a beat to long, then shook himself slightly. “Since we were kids,” he said.

“Wow, no wonder you seem so…”

“So what?” he turned to stare at her. How did they seem? Could she tell that Timmy —

She shrugged. “He seems really comfortable with you, and you’re so sweet with him. Probably because you’ve known him so long. They don’t need it, you know. My dad has a Helper now, and basically just leaves him lists of tasks each day.”

“Yeah that’s…”

_What I used to do. Before I realized that Helpers do have some fucking feelings and it’s practically criminal to treat them like they don’t._

He cleared his throat. “That’s how many people do things. Not us.”

Maika bounced over to him then. “Okay,” she said, wrapping her arms around his neck. “I decided I don’t need a drink after all. I’m in the mood for a different sort of refreshment.”

She stretched up on her toes to kiss him, and he let her. He opened his mouth under the pressure of her lips, but allowed her to keep control. After a minute, she pulled back and smiled, lacing her fingers through his.

“Let’s go,” she said, giving him a sly smile. “I’m anxious to see the views from your bedroom.”

Wordlessly, he led her out of the den and into his room, closing the door behind him. As soon as they were inside, she was on him again, kissing him and pushing his jacket off of his shoulders.

 _You want this,_ he reminded himself. _It doesn’t make you feel cheap, or guilty. You want her to pull off your bowtie, unbutton your shirt — like that — trail her fingers down your chest. You want to unzip her dress and stroke your palm up her spine and into her hair. You want her to push you backwards towards the bed, to unfasten your pants, to climb on top of you. You want her to lick your neck, and kiss your chest, and scratch her nails across your nipples. You want—_

He heard a soft sound, like the brush of something against the wall. Or...the door.

“What was that?” he asked. He pulled away from Maika, and when she whined at him he put a finger to his lips. “Shhh,” he said. “I thought I heard…”

He listened, but there was nothing. He rolled to the left and off the bed, ignoring Maika’s sound of protest, and hurried to the bedroom door, grabbing the knob with one shaking hand. When he flung it open, he wasn’t sure what he expected to see, but all he saw was darkness.

Maybe he had imagined the sound, imagined that someone was standing outside his door, listening, as he rolled around in his bed. Maybe he had imagined someone being so desperate to know what was going on inside that—

From the other side of the apartment, a door slammed.

Timmy’s heart thudded in his chest. _No._ That couldn’t be right. There was no way that Armie would decide to come and _listen_ to him having sex with Maika. No fucking way.

“What’s the matter?” Maika asked from behind him. “Come back.”

He took a deep breath, and when he exhaled, he felt a sense of calm acceptance spread over him.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “It’s...not going to happen.

He turned and gave her a sad smile.

“Why?” she asked, sounding legitimately confused. “I thought you asked me because—”

“I asked you because you’re a brilliant date,” he said. “And you charm and schmooze with the best of them. Thank you for that. But...I haven’t gotten much sleep recently, and I’m pretty tired.”

“Oh.” She hesitated. “We could sleep,” she said. “Maybe you’ll be less tired in the morning.”

“No, I don’t think so.” He smiled and picked up her dress. “Let me help you get your things, I’ll call you a cab.”

She looked a little put out at that, but then she laughed. “This is why I always jump when you call, Timothée Chalamet.” At least she pronounced his name right. “I can never quite figure you out.”

He shrugged. “There’s not so much to figure,” he said. “I’m actually a pretty simple guy.”

 _After all,_ he thought, _I’ve basically only wanted one person my whole life. No sense in trying to quit now._

Timmy slept alone that night. Or, it would be more precise to say that he laid alone in his bed, staring up at the ceiling, thinking.

In the morning, he waited for the sun to come up, then threw on a robe and made his way to the kitchen. Sure enough, just as he expected, he found Armie setting up breakfast.

When he walked in, Armie looked up, but didn’t meet his eye. “Good morning, sir,” he said. “I hope you slept well.”

“Not particularly,” said Timmy, watching him carefully. “You?”

“Of course, sir,” said Armie. “Thank you for asking.”

Timmy sat on a stool and watched as Armie poured him cereal and milk, a glass of orange juice, and a steaming mug of coffee. When everything was set in front of him, he cleared his throat.

“Armie,” he said, “did you come back to my room last night after we said good night? Did you need something from me and then change your mind?”

Armie froze as he was putting the juice back into the refrigerator. “No, sir,” he said, after a brief hesitation.

“Are you sure?” asked Timmy. “It’s okay if you did. I just thought I heard a noise outside the door, but when I went to look, no one was there.”

Armie closed the refrigerator and then turned and met Timmy’s gaze head on.

“I didn’t come back, sir,” he said. “It must have been something from outside, and it merely sounded like it came from the door.”

He busied himself at the sink for a minute, running the water and turning on the garbage disposal, even though Timmy was pretty sure that pouring cereal and making coffee hadn’t required any preparation that would make those actions necessary. After a minute, he wiped his hands on a dishtowel and turned back around.

“If you don’t need anything else right now, I’d like to go to the store,” he said. “There are a few things we need.”

Timmy nodded slowly. “Of course,” he said. “I’ll see you later?”

“Yes, sir,” said Armie. He strode out of the kitchen without a backward glance.

There were a lot of things Timmy was unsure about. He was unsure about having sent Maika home last night, unsure about the state of his own feelings and what he was going to do about them, unsure about what was going to happen or what kind of heartache he was setting himself up for. But there was one thing of which Timmy was absolutely, one-hundred-fifty-percent certain.

Armie had just told a _lie._


	10. The Stash

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Armie was angry._
> 
> _Timmy knew it without a doubt._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have you SEEN the new art by Chalamazed?!?!?! It's stunning and I am overwhelmed.
> 
> I definitely won't be posting another chapter for a few days, so hopefully this one will tide you over.
> 
> Thank you thank you thank you thank you for reading.
> 
> Fiction, of course.
> 
> (I'm totally behind on comments...it's either respond or write, and I've been choosing to write. I will catch up!)

[Chalamazed](https://twitter.com/chalamazed/status/1108536473559728128)

* * *

 

Armie was angry.

Timmy knew it without a doubt. He had never seen his Helper so cold. Passionless sure...but not deliberately cold. He wasn’t sure _how_ angry. Maybe he was just mildly annoyed. Peeved.

But whatever he was, Armie was gone for several hours.

During that time, Timmy found himself feeling restless, and wandered aimlessly through his apartment. He moved through the large living area, the kitchen, his office and den, his bedroom. He paused in the hallway, and then ventured to the other side of the apartment and stood in front of the door to Armie’s bedroom.

He realized that he had never really been here without Armie around. Usually, Armie did his errands and shopping while Timmy was at work, so while Armie had plenty of time at home alone, Timmy never did.

In fact, he had never been inside Armie’s room, not since they had moved in. He found himself suddenly intensely curious about the space that Armie called his own. He shouldn’t go in, right? He should respect Armie’s privacy, not be a creepy snoop, and so on?

_Fuck it_ , he thought. The need to see overtook any hesitations he had, and he turned the knob and pushed the door open. He wasn’t sure what he had expected, but he supposed he shouldn’t be surprised at what he found.

The room was neat, and spartan. A perfectly made bed, a nightstand with only a small lamp on it, a dresser with nothing on top. There was nothing to even indicate anyone lived there. Bland artwork on the walls, no photographs or reading material or items that one collected as they moved through life. It could have been a rarely used guest room or a hotel room, for all the personality it had.

Timmy opened the closet, and was even more depressed. It was nearly empty. Several pairs of pants hung there, and a few shirts, but nothing else. Armie didn’t own much in the way of clothing. He needed very little, and Timmy had never really paid much attention to what he wore and didn’t wear.

The bathroom was a bit better, since in here it was clear someone used the space.There were things like shampoo and soap and toothpaste, at least. Timmy opened the medicine cabinet. It was empty. He bent down and peeked into the cabinet under the sink. Other than a small box the size of a shoebox, it was empty.

He returned to the bedroom and looked around once more, feeling a crushing sadness that this was Armie’s own space and it was so plain. It was more evidence of how bare his Helper’s existence truly was.

On his way out of the room, he noticed something glinting in the wastebasket and bent down for a closer look. What he saw made his mouth drop open.

It was a track medal. It was one of _Timmy’s_ track medals. From high school.

A wave of cold hit him from head to toe. What the _fuck_ was his track medal from high school doing in the wastebasket in Armie’s room?

He reached in to pick it up and noticed that it wasn’t alone.

Slowly, he drew out item after familiar item. More track medals, articles he had written from his high school newspaper, and...photos. Lots of photos, of he and Armie, growing up.

_What in the hell was happening here?_

He knelt on the hardwood floor with the memorabilia spread out around him, trying to breathe. The last time he had seen any of this was…the night Armie had returned from training. The night Timmy had learned that his best friend was gone, replaced by a robotic substitute who had no memory of what they had once been to each other.

Timmy remembered gathering everything he had that represented something about their relationship and shoving it away. In the bottom drawer of Armie’s old dresser.

He looked over his shoulder at the dresser sitting against the wall. It wasn’t the same one, but maybe...maybe Armie had kept the items for him? All these years?

And now they were in the trash. Because...Timmy blew out a breath. Armie had thrown them away. After seeing Timmy with Maika last night.

He blinked back the moisture collecting in the corners of his eyes and covered his mouth with his hands, trying to hold in the whimper that was threatening to escape. Had Armie really been so upset — or even angry — the night before, that he had... _trashed_ things that belonged to Timmy?

Then that would mean…

He bit down on his lower lip, tried not to jump to any conclusions, and considered what to do. Despite the fact that he had essentially tossed all of these things himself in a similar fit of emotion over nine years ago, now that they were back he didn’t really want to let them go. They no longer represented everything he had lost. Now, they represented possibilities.

With a sigh, he placed the the items back in the wastebasket. He didn’t want Armie to know he had been in here, after all. He’d have to come back and find a way to save them later, before they ended up in the trash for real. With one last look, he left the room, closing the door behind him. He ventured back out into the main areas of the apartment and took another look around.

When he had bought the place, it had been about the prestige, the investment, and the space. Looking it over now, he realized that it wasn’t all that different from Armie’s room. It was worse, maybe, now that he knew Armie had been hoarding his childhood keepsakes for years. The apartment was devoid of anything that made it _his._ Sure, there was more _stuff_ around. More artwork, more small items, magazines that were delivered and never read...but it was all just...standard. Impersonal. He hadn’t chosen any of it. He didn’t care about any of it.

He hadn’t cared about much, for a long time, if he was going to be honest.

He had worked hard to do well at his job...but maybe that was a byproduct of him working in order to avoid being home. The better he did at work the more he needed to be there, which meant he didn’t have to be here, in this space that didn’t feel like home.

Was he really any different from Armie, in that respect? He guessed that the real distinction was that Armie didn’t have a _choice_. His ability to really care about things had been ripped from him. Timmy had _had_ a choice, and had chosen to stop caring.

He sank onto the uncomfortable living room sofa and stared out the windows. _Fuck_.

Only now...he did care. He cared about Armie, at least. And Armie…

...Armie had lied to him. And Armie had trashed a bunch of things that meant something to Timmy. Because he had been hurt when Timmy brought home a girl, took her to bed.

Timmy pushed himself to his feet, feeling a little breathless. He wasn’t completely sure the right way forward, but he knew that it _was_ time to move forward, whatever that brought.

Later, Timmy arrived home from running a few errands and moved carefully through the living area and past the kitchen. He could hear water running from inside the kitchen and figured Armie was finally home. That made sense, it was getting close to dinnertime, and Armie wasn’t one to leave Timmy stranded.

Not that Timmy couldn’t make his own dinner. He had hands and a brain. Which maybe could manage macaroni and cheese from a box in a pinch, but still. He also had a phone and a credit card, he could always order in.

He continued into the den and deposited his packages in a cabinet. He wasn’t entirely sure what he was going to do with them yet, or when. He just knew they were things he wanted to have handy. In case.

When he returned to the kitchen, he took a deep breath and pushed through the door. Armie was standing at the counter, chopping vegetables, the knife quietly _thunking_ against the cutting board, the muscles of Armie’s back stretching and flexing beneath his t-shirt.

Timmy watched him for a moment, waiting for a pause. When Armie picked up the cutting board and used the knife to pushed the diced...onion, it looked like...into a glass bowl, he cleared his throat.

Armie visibly tensed, then set the cutting board and knife down and turned. He didn’t speak, merely held himself still, chin up, and waited.

“Hi,” said Timmy. “What’s for dinner?”

“Stir-fry chicken and vegetables, sir,” said Armie. “I hope that is okay with you.” His voice was cold. Too cold.

“Sounds good,” Timmy said. He didn’t let himself respond to the coldness, deliberately keeping his tone light and warm. “Whatever you cook, it’s always great. Did you get what you needed while you were out?”

Armie’s eyes flicked down and to the left, and then back up. “Yes, sir,” he said.

“You were gone a long time. I thought about calling to check, making sure you hadn’t run into any problems.”

“No problems, sir,” said Armie. “The...there were crowds. The first place I went had run out of...peppers.”

_Lies._ Timmy wondered if Armie had gone to the grocery store at all. If he hadn’t, what had he been doing? Walking around?

“I meant to tell you this morning, thank you for waiting up for me last night. You didn’t have to, but I appreciated it. It’s...nice to feel cared for like that.” Timmy moved a little closer to Armie, who was still standing like a Christmas nutcracker, back straight, arms at his sides.

“I apologize for the way you found me,” said Armie. “I did not mean to use your space like that and interfere with your...date.” On the last word, Armie’s tone changed. No longer cold, he practically spat the word _date_ at Timmy. Had he clenched his teeth?

The smile that crept onto Timmy’s face was stupid. He shouldn’t be enjoying Armie’s discomfort this much. He should feel bad that Armie had been hurt by his actions last night. He should want to soothe them as quickly as he could. He _did_ want to.

But...Armie was _jealous_. He was angry because Timmy had brought Maika home, into the den, and sent Armie to bed. He was hurt because Timmy had taken Maika instead of Armie into his room. He was _upset_. And if that wasn’t the best thing that had happened to Timmy all year…

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” said Timmy, still grinning. “I liked finding you in there, watching television, stretched out on the sofa. It was cute.”

Armie’s gaze snapped back to Timmy’s face. He nodded. “Thank you, sir,” he said. “I hope you had a good night after I went to sleep.”

On that, he turned sharply and picked up a pepper. Now, the knife hit the cutting board with more of a _thwack_ than a thud, as Armie put the full force of his biceps into it.

Timmy shook his head, feeling slightly overwhelmed. Before he knew what he was doing, he closed the distance between them and pressed his chest and cheek against Armie’s back, sliding his arms around Armie’s waist and pulling him close.

“Nothing happened,” he said, his voice slightly muffled against Armie’s t-shirt. He rubbed his nose back and forth against the soft fabric. “Armie, I sent her home. She didn’t...nothing happened.”

Armie paused in his cutting, going still in Timmy’s arms, but said nothing.

“I took her to the thing because the firm needed me to have a date, and we used to...she wanted to come back here. I thought...I thought maybe it was a good idea. But as soon as she was here, and as soon as I saw you, I knew it wasn’t.” He sighed. “She kissed me. That’s basically it. I sent her home pretty much right away. After I heard you outside the door, I called her a cab and she left. Nothing happened. I swear it.”

Armie breathed in and out slowly. He set the knife down.

“It's okay if you're upset, or mad at me,” Timmy continued. “It's...good. It means that maybe whatever it is we’re doing here isn't just me living in a fantasy and hoping for something I can never have. I thought maybe it was, and that's why I thought I had to try to...but if you're upset, because I brought her here, then it's not just me. I don't know if any of this is making sense to you, but in case it is, I wanted to, you know, say it.”

Timmy flattened his hands against Armie’s stomach and slid them up to Armie’s chest. “I don’t want her,” he whispered. “I promise. I want...this.”

Armie placed his hands over Timmy’s. They were cold, and slightly damp, and it didn’t matter. Timmy closed his eyes and felt relief slide over him as Armie’s muscles relaxed against him.

Then Armie picked up the knife again and continued to chop the pepper. It moved more quietly now.

Timmy reluctantly stepped away from Armie, but didn’t go far. Instead, he leaned a hip on the counter and picked up the red pepper that was still whole. It was freshly washed. He turned it over in his hands, watching the droplets of water slide around its curves.

“So,” said Timmy. “Can I help?”

Armie glanced over at Timmy, and then back at his work. “No, sir, you can relax. This should be ready in approximately a half hour. Would you like a glass of wine?”

“No thanks,” said Timmy. “Seriously, I’d like to help. Can you explain what you’re doing? Give me a task?”

Armie slid the pile of chopped yellow pepper into the bowl with the onions. He plucked the red pepper out of Timmy’s hands and set it on the cutting board.

“I am chopping the vegetables,” he said.

“Yeah, that I can tell,” said Timmy, with a laugh. “I mean the harder stuff. How do you know how much to put in? Like, how do you know two peppers is the right amount?”

Armie shrugged. It looked funny, because Timmy couldn’t remember the last time he had seen Armie make that casual gesture.

“Experience. Recipes,” Armie said. He smiled. “Cooking shows.”

Timmy smiled too. “What else are you putting in?” He reached for a garlic bulb, feeling the papery skin that flaked away so easily under his fingers.

Armie eyed him. “A few cloves of that,” he said. “And those mushrooms.” He pointed with his chin to a plastic tub of sliced baby portobello mushrooms sitting in the sink. “And the chicken that is marinating in the refrigerator.”

Timmy set the garlic down and went to the refrigerator. He peered inside at the shallow glass dish holding sliced chicken breast and some sort of brownish liquid.

“What’s it marinating in?” he asked.

“Soy sauce and seasoning,” said Armie. He finished chopping the second pepper and moved on to the garlic. Timmy closed the refrigerator and watched as Armie carefully picked three cloves off of the bulb, then stripped them, smashed them, and minced them fine.

“You’re so good at that,” TImmy murmured. “It’s almost like ballet. Graceful.”

Armie paused, and then shot Timmy a small smile. “Thank you,” he said.

He rinsed his hands under the faucet, then reached in the lower cabinets for a large skillet. Timmy watched him set it on the stovetop, turn on the flame, and add a drizzle of olive oil.

“Once it’s hot, you just toss the vegetables in?” he asked.

“Not all at once,” said Armie. “And the chicken cooks first.”

Instead of going to the refrigerator, he reached underneath for a small saucepan.

“Now what are you doing?” asked Timmy.

“Making rice,” said Armie.

This continued throughout the meal preparation. Timmy peppered Armie with questions. Armie answered. Eventually, Armie handed Timmy a spatula and had him toss the ingredients of the skillet around while Armie added the sauce he had prepared. A bit splattered up and hit him on the cheek.

Without hesitation, Armie reached out and swiped it off of Timmy’s cheek with his thumb, then licked his thumb. Timmy stared at him, the spatula going still in the stir fry. Armie swallowed.

“I’m sorry, sir,” he said. “I didn’t mean to—”

“No reason to be sorry,” said Timmy, but his voice shook a little.

When dinner was ready, they took up their standard spots at either end of the kitchen island with their bowls.

“Thanks for letting me help,” Timmy said. “That was fun.”

Armie nodded. “You’re welcome, sir. It was...nice.”

Timmy paused with a forkful of the meal halfway to his mouth. He wasn’t crazy, was he? He wasn’t. Armie was acting _different_. Less formal, more casual. More like a person and less like...the Helper he had been living with for years.

After dinner, instead of retreating to the den, Timmy stayed and helped Armie clean up. Armie shot him worried glances, but Timmy kept up a stream of chatter until he relaxed.

In the den, Timmy decided to see if he could push the boundaries further. He flipped away from the cooking channel and landed on a recent movie. A comedy.

“Is it okay if we watch this?” he asked Armie. “I haven’t seen it yet.”

“Of course, sir,” said Armie, settling on the sofa beside him.

For an hour, they watched. The movie was decent, and Timmy found himself giggling repeatedly, leaning into Armie and nudging him at particularly funny moments. Armie sat quietly, the way he always did. Timmy looked over at him now and then, looking for any indication that he was understanding the story or something on the screen.

There was nothing.

He tried not to be disappointed. It might be asking too much, for Armie to engage with a story. He decided that the items he had purchased would remain tucked away, for now.

But it had been a good day, and he wasn’t done trying. He had come up with an entire list of plans, and he was looking forward to trying each and every one.

When it was time to call it a night, Timmy simply stood and stretched.

“I’m headed for bed,” he said.

Armie nodded and stood as well. “Good night, sir,” he said.

Timmy strolled to the door. “Coming?” he asked. He held out a hand.

Armie looked at it for a moment, then up at Timmy. Wordlessly, he crossed the room and closed his hand around Timmy’s. Just like that, they were back to normal.

* * *

On Sunday morning, as he was eating his egg sandwich, Timmy said, “Would you like to go for a run today?”

Armie looked over from where he was making a second pot of coffee. “You’d like to run, sir?” he asked.

“I was thinking about taking it up again,” said Timmy. “I don’t exercise enough, and...I’m skinny, but that doesn’t mean I’m healthy, right? I used to like running. We used to like running together.”

“And you would like me to run with you?” asked Armie.

“If you want,” said Timmy. “Could be fun.”

“Yes, sir,” said Armie. “If it pleases you—”

“Yeah, I know,” Timmy sighed. “If it pleases me, it pleases you.”

But he refused to be discouraged, especially since, an hour later, he and Armie were standing on a path in Central Park, clad in sweats and running shoes.

“Listen,” said Timmy, “you are in way better shape than me — remind me to ask you about that, actually — and I haven’t done this in a really long time. So I might not last very long.”

“Yes, sir,” said Armie.

“Let’s go.” Timmy started at a moderate jog, and Armie fell into step behind him.

It _had_ been a long time, and he felt his lack of exercise and years of heavy drinking immediately. Despite their snail’s pace, after a while he was breathing heavily and his calves were screaming. He stopped running  and flung his head back, trying to catch his breath. Armie stopped alongside him.

“Maybe we should call it quits,” said Timmy, once he could talk again. “How long has it been?”

“We have been running for thirteen minutes,” said Armie. “Would you like to go home? I can hail a cab.”

“Thirteen minutes?” Timmy rolled his eyes. “Fuck, I’m in terrible shape.”

“We are going home, then?” asked Armie.

“ _No_ ,” said Timmy. “No. You don’t let me quit. _You_ push me.”

Armie frowned. “If you wish to go home, sir—”

“I want you to make me better,” said Timmy. “I’m going to want to do things that aren’t good for me, and...instead of just letting me, I’d rather you get in my way.”

Armie looked hesitant at best, and confused at worst.

“Look, I know you don’t remember, but a long time ago, _you_ were the one who made me into a track star. You never let me quit. You pushed me to train harder, to keep going even when I wanted to die.” Timmy shoved his hair out of his face and looked up at his Helper. “I know that...that might be harder for you, now, but...could you try?”

“You want me to...not do what you say?” Armie blinked at him.

“Right, sometimes,” said Timmy. “Like now, when I say I want to quit after thirteen minutes, I want you to not _let_ me give up. Instead, convince me I don't have to quit. That I've got it in me to keep going.”

“But not all the time,” said Armie. “Sometimes I should still follow orders.”

“Yeah.” Timmy wiped a line of sweat from his temple and hesitated. “Or...actually, no. You don't have to do what I say ever if you don't want to.”

Armie’s brow furrowed. “A...Helper’s Purpose…” He began, and then trailed off.

Timmy had been about to tell him that the Helper’s Purpose could fuck off, but now he waited to see what Armie would do.

“No request can be denied,” he muttered, staring at the ground. “But if you request that I ignore your orders and...and do what is...best?” He looked up. “I would have to choose which orders to follow, and either way would fulfill the purpose.”

Timmy grinned. "A loophole. Exactly. And as long as you're choosing what's best for me, then you're still providing aid and...and meeting my needs, which is the whole point, right?”

“How do I determine what is best?” Armie asked.

Timmy have a one-shouldered shrug. “Use your judgment.”

“Helpers have no need for their own intelligence,” Armie said.

“But you do,” said Timmy. "That doesn't even make sense anyhow. You use your intelligence all the time. To decide what to cook and buy, and how to run my life. Because you do that. I mean...you know me. You know what I need. You know how to make me better because you already do it. You take orders but you don't _just_ take orders.”

Armie stared at the ground, and Timmy waited. At long last, Armie raised his head. “Yes,” he said. “That makes sense.”

Timmy beamed at him. “Great,” he said.”So...I say ‘I can't do this, I’m too out of shape.’ And you say…”

“I say...you can do it, don’t give up.”

“Yes!” Timmy clapped Armie on the shoulder. “Then I'm probably going to whine about my legs hurting and insist on hailing a cab. And you say…”

Armie blinked at him, and then smiled. “Let’s go. Keep up.”

Then he turned and took off, at a faster pace than they had been going. Timmy stood, shocked...and then he scrambled to catch up, laughing.

That evening, when he hobbled into the kitchen to get a glass of water — he was already sore from trying to keep up with his Helper, tomorrow was going to be a _bitch_ — he saw Armie taking two bags of trash into the hall to send down the chute.

“Hey,” he called out.

“Yes, sir?” Armie paused at the door and turned.

Timmy tried to figure out how to ask if Armie was throwing out all of his medals and photos without actually asking.

“Did you get the trash from all the rooms? The den?”

“Yes, sir.”

“From...from your room?”

Armie frowned. “I had no trash today, sir.”

Not knowing what else to ask, he waved Armie on. As soon as the door shut, he raced down the hall to Armie’s bedroom.

The wastebasket was empty. But maybe…Timmy went to the dresser and opened the bottom drawer. There, laid out carefully, was everything. Medals, articles, photos...it was all there. He breathed a sigh of relief, and then dashed back into the kitchen just as Armie opened the front door.

On Wednesday, Timmy put on another movie. He was getting sort of sick of cooking shows, and while Armie did seem to get something out of them, he also seemed content to just be sitting with Timmy on the sofa, no matter what was on.

Timmy settled in. Tonight, he chose to sit up against Armie’s left side, Armie slung his left arm around Timmy’s shoulders and pulled him close. He tucked his head on Armie’s shoulder, left arm draped across Armie’s waist, his right hand intertwined with Armie’s right hand.

It was a favorite position, and one that he had been adopting more frequently of late.

The movie — another comedy — was about half over when the main character goofed up a recipe badly. He smirked at the resulting culinary disaster, and felt Armie’s chest jerk slightly and shake. Then it happened again, and Timmy lifted his head to peer up at Armie.

Armie was smiling broadly. His eyes were locked on the television, and it was more of an expression than Timmy had seen on him since...before.

Suddenly, Armie made a sound Timmy hadn’t thought he’d ever hear from his Helper again.

It made his chest tighten, his throat close, and his eyes fill up with moisture. It made his heart pound and his pulse race.

Armie _laughed_.


	11. The Kiss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Timmy was distracted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I keep saying this but I'm completely overwhelmed by the love this story is getting. It just keeps taking me by surprise. I'm so thankful for all of you, you truly have no idea.
> 
> We're closing in on the end of this story. There are still a few more chapters, and a few more bumps in the road. Enjoy the fluff while you can ;)
> 
> 100% fiction, of course.

[Chalamazed](https://twitter.com/chalamazed/status/1108536473559728128)

* * *

 

Timmy was distracted.

He knew exactly why, of course. It didn’t take a particularly sharp mind to intuit that he was leaving his keys in the bathroom and his phone in the refrigerator — and the _Childress Group_ file in his home office — because his mind was completely absorbed with thinking about his Helper.

Armie was different now, of that Timmy was positive. Anyone could see it. He had gone from being incapable of carrying on more than the most basic conversation or understanding complex reasoning to being able to partially hold up his end of the dialogue, at least for short stretches of time.

He could ask questions that were more than rudimentary and show interest in what Timmy was saying. He seemed to be able to comprehend logic and connect multiple strands of a subject on his own without prompting. He was starting to demonstrate emotions like surprise and amusement and sympathy in response to Timmy’s thoughts instead of just making objective observations. Sometimes, Timmy felt like he was talking to a... _friend_ and not to a Helper at all.

It wasn’t like talking to Armie the way he was before training. Every once in a while Timmy thought he saw a glimpse of the old personality, a hint of the sense of humor and fierce intelligence he had so admired. Most of the time, however, it was his _new_ Armie, who operated with a reserved strength and quiet peace that Timmy had come to find comforting and steady.

All of this improvement did seem to have its limits, however. At times, Armie seemed to revert back to his formal, near automaton status, existing in a silence and stiffness that distressed Timmy. In that state, Armie almost seemed not to remember even the most recent activities that were not standard Helper protocol. It was like someone had hit a button to delete anything Armie had appeared to have learned.

When that happened, Timmy had to squash his spike of panic that any progress they had made had evaporated or been forgotten forever.

He noticed that the pendulum swung backwards most often after a particularly _good_ episode, and seemed to kick in when Armie woke up in the morning. The worst was the day after their run, when Armie woke up and spoke in brief, direct sentences, barely looked at Timmy, and didn’t seem to notice that his behavior was causing Timmy concern.

But he would phase out of it and swing back to his fully progressed state before too long, usually as a result of Timmy engaging with him and not giving up. So Timmy decided that it was just part of the process. Growing pains.

Whether it was because of all of this, because he was so focused on continuing to gently push Armie further along the spectrum, or whether it was because Timmy knew he was a lost cause and was falling harder and harder for Armie each day…

...Timmy was distracted.

So it was that on a Friday, nine days after Armie laughed, that Timmy found himself calling his Helper and requesting that he deliver the fat _Childress Group_ file to him at the office.

He’d never done that before. Asked Armie to come to his office. It had never come up that he needed something delivered, and...being at work had always been a way to be _away_ from Armie.

That obviously wasn’t a concern anymore.

He realized, after central reception had called to let him know his visitor had arrived, that maybe he was a little nervous. It was stupid. Armie would never say anything negative about him anyway, and it was unclear Armie was even capable of being truly impressed...but he really wanted Armie to be proud of him, even just a tiny bit.

He stopped in the restroom to make sure he looked okay and then ventured out to the waiting area. Armie sat stiffly in a plush leather chair, hands folded and resting on the file in his lap, staring straight ahead.

Timmy winced. Armie had seemed to be in good shape that morning, but maybe he had lapsed back into full Helper mode.

But when Timmy approached and called his name, Armie looked up with a broad smile. Timmy smiled back.

“Hey,” he said. “Thanks for bringing that by.”

Armie stood and held out the file. “You’re welcome, sir,” he said. “It’s my pleasure.” He glanced around, then gestured out the large windows. “The view of the city here is stunning.”

“Do you...would you like to see my office?” he asked, taking the file from Armie.

Armie nodded. “Of course, sir.”

“This way.” Timmy gestured for Armie to follow and led him down the long hallways. “These are some of the conference rooms,” he said, pointing into spaces as they passed. “For meetings and stuff. The copy center is on this floor, which is convenient. Kitchen is in there.”

They turned a corner. “It’s big,” said Armie.

Timmy glanced over at him. It was a good day still, then, if Armie was moving the conversation along like this.

“Yeah. This is actually just one floor. We have seven in this building.” They turned one last corner and Timmy stopped. “Well, here we are. Work sweet work.”

Armie reached up and traced his fingers over the brass nameplate that hung on the wall outside the door. “Timothée Chalamet,” he murmured. “Your name on it. So everyone knows it’s yours.”

“Yeah, I guess,” said Timmy.

Armie pushed his sleeve back and casually traced the fingers of his right hand over his Helper mark and Timmy’s initials there. “Just like me.”

Something pinged in Timmy’s chest. He took Armie’s left hand and ran his own fingers over the mark.

“Yes,” he said. Without knowing exactly what he was doing, he brought Armie’s wrist up and placed a soft kiss on the mark. “But this one is so much more important than having my name on a wall.”

Armie looked down at him, his gaze soft.

Timmy took a deep breath and released Armie’s hand. “Right, well...come on in.” He pushed open his office door, leading the way inside.

Armie stood just inside the door, looking around. Timmy set the file on his desk and waited. He tracked the path of Armie’s eyes, trying to imagine what his Helper was seeing. It was a decent sized office, big enough for a large desk, a credenza that ran the length of the outer wall, two bookshelves, and a couple of chairs. The outside wall was almost entirely window, and since they were on the top floor, it angled in at the top to form a skylight.

The desk was covered in paper. Timmy was a messy worker, and tended to spread things out and move them around a lot while he worked through analysis. There was also an embarrassing collection of empty water bottles and iced tea cans with the tabs snapped off.

He jumped forward and started to collect them and toss them in the trash, blushing. Why didn’t he just throw them out when they were empty? Why didn’t he keep things in neater piles? He started to organized the papers. Armie was going to think he was…

He jumped when Armie’s hands closed around his, and looked up. Armie smiled at him.

“Don’t,” said Armie.

“I’m sorry it’s such a mess,” Timmy said, blowing his hair out of his eyes. “It’s organized...I mean, I know what and where everything is, I just sometimes don’t think—“

“Do you want me to help?” asked Armie. “I’m sorry, sir. I never thought to ask if I could...come here. But if you want, I could help you.”

Timmy shook his head. Armie hadn’t moved his hands, and Timmy found that he didn’t want him to, so other than shaking his curls, he didn’t move.

“Not your fault,” said Timmy. “I never asked. But you don’t have to help, I have an assistant. And I can manage. That’s not why you’re here, anyway.”

Armie stood, nodding. “Of course, sir. I’m just delivering your file. I didn’t mean to overstep.”

He looked contrite, and Timmy could see him folding in on himself, the way he did whenever he thought he had done something wrong. Timmy was beginning to hate that look. _Fuck._

“You didn’t,” said Timmy. “You...Armie, you can’t overstep, okay? It’s not possible. I don’t know how to make you understand this, but…you aren’t here just to deliver a file. I wanted you to see...where I work and spend time when I’m not home. I’m sorry, I should have done it sooner, but I…”

“Don’t apologize, sir. My involvement in all areas of your life is at your discretion.” Armie squared his shoulders and cast his eyes towards the ground.

_Damn it._ He could practically see Armie retreating into Helper mindset. Without overthinking it, he surged around the desk and wrapped his arms around Armie’s waist, ducking in so that he could catch Armie’s eye. “I know it’s hard for you to believe, because of what you’ve been taught, but as far as I’m concerned, you’re allowed to do whatever you want or think is right. Even if I don’t agree. It doesn’t mean you’re doing anything wrong. I mean, we’re not always going to agree on everything. I don’t expect you to just do that. That would be...that’s not what I’m looking for.”

Armie looked down at him, his brow furrowed. “You want me to disagree with you?”

“Yeah, if I’m being an ass, or if I’m wrong. Or even if you just have a different idea.” Timmy cupped a palm around Armie’s cheek and patted it softly. “I know, it’s a strange concept. Just give it a try. I think it would be fun, even.”

After a moment, Armie slid his arms around Timmy’s waist and rested his hands lightly on Timmy’s lower back. He raised an eyebrow and one side of his mouth lifted in…was that a smirk?

“I’m not sure I agree with that, sir,” Armie said.

There was a beat, and then Timmy threw his head back and laughed. He grinned and shook his head in wonder. Armie had...made a joke. A sophisticated one, involving _irony_ , for fuck’s sake. Armie’s smile widened at the sound of Timmy’s laughter. He looked almost proud of himself.

“Perfect,” said Timmy. Without thinking, he stood up on his toes and kissed Armie on the cheek.

Armie stiffened in his arms.

Worried that this time _he_ had overstepped, Timmy backed out of Armie’s embrace and cleared his throat. “So anyway...thanks for coming by. I should get back to work since I’m kind of behind. After leaving the file and everything.”

Armie gazed at him intently for a moment, and then nodded. “Yes, sir. I should return home, then, and see you tonight for dinner?”

“Yeah, that sounds good. Maybe...maybe in the future you could meet me for lunch or something. Now that you know where it is.” Timmy swallowed. Why was he so nervous? Armie would meet him for lunch if he asked. It’s not like there was a chance of being rejected.

“Of course, sir. Just tell me if you would like me to do that.”

Timmy bit at his lower lip. “Right. Or...you could just...decide to show up at lunchtime someday without me asking. If you felt like it.”

“Yes, sir,” said Armie. “I will remember that.”

He hesitated a moment, and then suddenly he took two giant steps forward. Timmy tensed, unsure what Armie was about to do. But his Helper stopped in front of him, waited a beat for Timmy to look up at him, and then leaned down and kissed Timmy on the cheek.

“I will go now, sir,” Armie said, his voice in Timmy’s ear almost, but not quite, drowning out the sound of Timmy’s heart pounding.

He had turned and walked out the door before Timmy recovered from his shock. He stood in his office, his hand on his cheek, his face flushed, for a good ten minutes. If someone had come in, or if his phone had decided to ring, he would barely have noticed. His entire consciousness was focused on the moments before. The determined look in Armie’s eyes, the way he had just _decided_ to take action without direction, the soft, warm pressure of his lips…

Eventually, Timmy sank into his chair. He slowly opened the _Childress Group_ file. Then he spent the next two hours _not_ seeing the numbers and reports in front of him.

On his way out that evening, he was still preoccupied with the innocent kisses he had exchanged with his Helper. Did Armie want to be more...physical with him? Did he miss the activity that had started them down this path in the first place?

The thought of... _that_ with Armie was even more powerful now than it had been before. Before, he had had this fantasy about sex with Armie, about Armie manhandling him into bed, about being able to worship Armie’s body like it deserved. But that’s all it was, and it was mainly about the old Armie, the one who existed before training.

Now...now they were sleeping in the same bed every night, spending hours before that cuddling on the sofa in the den, able to touch each other easily. But that was about comfort. It was, Timmy had believed, about giving in to his desire to be near Armie without crossing any invisible lines that existed because of the nature of their relationship.

Even though he had allowed Armie to suck him off every night for a while, he had never really been entirely comfortable with that arrangement. He wasn’t sure Armie could really know whether he wanted to be doing it beyond a sense that it was what Timmy liked. That was why he hadn’t tried to go back, despite missing that element of their relationship.

But at this stage, things were different. Armie was starting to express his emotions and desires. Often haltingly, and with a lack of confidence, like he was sure any second Timmy would change his mind and want him to go back to being a “good” Helper, the way he had been taught. Despite this, Timmy felt like, _maybe_ , if he made a move, he’d be able to at least tell if Armie wasn’t into it, even if Armie didn’t tell him one way or the other.

He was just deciding that he’d maybe try something small and see what happened — and even that thought was making him breathless — when he heard his name. He turned and blinked the world back into focus in time to see Arthur Flint waving him over from his office doorway.

“Heading out, Chalamet?” asked Flint.

“Yes, sir,” said Timmy. “Unless you needed something from me?”

Flint shook his head. “No, but I did want a quick word.”

“Of course.” Timmy moved closer, expecting Flint to head into his office, but the man stood his ground. When Timmy was close enough, Flint reached out and clapped a hand on Timmy’s shoulder.

“Listen,” said Flint, dropping his voice slightly. “I saw you with your visitor earlier today.”

Timmy paled. Flint had seen Armie? Walking down the hall, or in his office? His office door had been wide open, and he hadn’t really thought about that at the time.

“Oh?” said Timmy. “You...you mean Armie.”

“Yes,” said Flint. “And I wanted to make sure you understood something.”

_Shit_ . Flint was going to scold him for being too familiar with his Helper. It must have looked like... _shit, shit, shit._ What you did with your Helper was supposed to remain behind closed doors. You weren’t supposed to flaunt it. And for a firm that was so concerned with _image_...

“I can explain,” he said hurriedly. “I had forgotten a file, and he brought it here, and Armie...he—”

Flint held up a hand. “No need,” he said. “I just wanted you to know, in light of the conversation we had a couple of weeks ago, that when I suggested you settle down I wasn’t being...old-fashioned.”

_Old-fashioned_? What was Flint talking about?

“I assumed that you were straight, since you had only ever brought women around to our events. But we are fine with it if you’re not. You can bring your boyfriend. We’re very accepting.”

Timmy stilled. Flint thought that Armie was his...boyfriend. Not his Helper.

“I still think you should settle down, but if I need to get you _His_ and _His_ towels as a wedding gift, I can do that.” Flint winked. “He’s a fine-looking man.”

“I…” Timmy tried to find words that made sense. “Thank you,” he managed. He forced a smile, but didn’t have to fake a blush.

After wishing Flint a good evening, Timmy headed for the elevator as fast as he could go. Now he was distracted by something else entirely. Someone had seen he and Armie together, and instead of seeing a Master and his Helper, they had seen two people in a relationship.

He wasn’t sure what exactly to do with that, but...it gave him something to think about.

At home, he was greeted with the smell of garlic and rosemary. He deposited his things and headed straight for the kitchen. He was feeling jumpy, tossing around what had happened between them in his office and what Flint had said. He wasn’t sure if seeing Armie would help him feel more at peace or make him even more nervous.

There was only one way to find out.

He pushed into the kitchen and found Armie transferring a roast chicken from a roasting pan onto a wooden cutting board. He picked up a knife and serving fork and began to slice off pieces of the chicken, transferring them to a platter. There were two foil-covered bowls sitting on the side board. Timmy smiled.

Peace, then.

Armie glanced over his shoulder at the moment the smile spread across Timmy’s face and an answering smile appeared. He set down the utensils and wiped his hands on a dishcloth.

“Hi,” he said. “Welcome home.”

At the sound of Armie’s voice, warmer than he had heard it in a long, long time, Timmy’s stomach jumped.

Nerves too, it seemed.

Timmy wasn’t sure how he could feel both emotions at the same time, but there it was. On impulse, he crossed the kitchen, went straight for Armie, and tucked his arms around Armie’s waist. He laid his head on Armie’s chest and inhaled. Armie was warm underneath him, and solid, and when Timmy felt Armie’s hands on his waist, he moved his own hands up and down Armie’s back and felt Armie’s heart speed up.

“This looks amazing,” he murmured.

Armie made a soft noise, and then cleared his throat. “I thought...I was thinking we could eat in the dining room tonight. If you would like. Sir.” he said.

Timmy nodded, rubbing his cheek against Armie’s chest. “I’d like that.”

He rarely used the dining room. He wasn’t sure when the last time he had been _in_ there was. But if Armie was taking initiative to change their routine, then he was going to encourage that and do anything Armie wanted.

Their conversation that night was quieter than usual. Timmy found that he was content to sit with Armie without feeling the need, for once, to push. He had set their places so that Timmy was at one end and Armie was in the closest spot to one side, so they were basically sitting next to each other.

His feet bumped up against Armie’s under the table a few times. The first couple of times it was an accident, but then, experimentally, Timmy hooked one foot under Armie’s calf. Armie paused in chewing, but then continued. A few minutes later, Timmy felt something nudge at his other foot, and his pulse jumped again.

After dinner, Timmy helped Armie clear the plates and pack up the leftovers. The dinner had apparently been labor intensive, because there was a pile of dishes to be done in the sink. He leaned up against the refrigerator and watched Armie push his sleeves up over his elbows and turn on the water.

“You can go to the den if you’d like, sir,” said Armie. “I can finish up in here and join you.”

“Mmmm,” said Timmy. “Do you need help?”

“No, this is really a one-person job,” said Armie. “I can do it.”

He picked up the roasting pan and began to rinse it under the stream of water. Timmy didn’t move. He waited until Armie had washed the roasting pan and set it to dry, and rinsed his hands under the water before he pushed off of the refrigerator and crossed to the sink.

He reached around Armie and turned off the water.

“What—” Armie began, confusion apparent on his face.

“Shhhh,” said Timmy. He took Armie’s hand, felt the cool dampness, and grabbed up the dishcloth. Slowly, he patted Armie’s hands dry. “Come with me,” he said, and began to pull Armie towards the kitchen door.

“The dishes—”

“Can wait until tomorrow,” Timmy said. “It’ll be okay.”

Armie nodded and followed him easily out of the kitchen and down the hall. Timmy hesitated outside of the den. He thought about bringing Armie in there, pulling him onto the sofa...but that wasn’t what he wanted.

He turned to face his Helper. “Look,” he said, “I don’t want to do anything you don’t want to do. But it’s been seeming to me like maybe...this might be something you want.”

He stepped in close, wrapped his arms around Armie, and turned his face into Armie’s neck. He breathed in and sighed, then placed a soft kiss at the hollow of Armie’s throat. Armie didn’t move away, instead wrapping one arm around Timmy’s back. The other slid up to Timmy’s neck, his fingers threading into TImmy’s hair.

Timmy took that as permission to continue. He kissed his way along the tendons in Armie’s neck and under his jaw, then paused again. Armie squeezed the back of Timmy’s neck, and Timmy smiled.

He pulled away and took Armie’s hand again, noting that Armie’s grey eyes had darkened, his pupils wide. He smiled and tugged.

“Come on,” he whispered.

He led Armie into his bedroom, closing the door behind them. He felt the nerves that had abated descend in full again as he let go of Armie’s hand and moved around the room, lighting the bedside lamp and closing the curtains.

When he turned back, Armie was standing by the door, waiting.

“Remember,” said Timmy. “Only what you want. I don’t want what you don’t want, so you have to tell me if you want to stop. I won’t be mad, or upset. I promise.”

“Yes, sir,” said Armie. “I understand.”

Timmy believed him. Nodding, Timmy crossed the room to stand before Armie again. He placed his palms on Armie’s cheeks, then slowly stroked down his neck, his shoulders, his arms.

Armie sighed.

Timmy ran his hands back up to Armie’s shoulders and then down onto his chest, his stomach. He paused with his hands near the hem of Armie’s shirt.

“How’re you doing?” Timmy asked.

“Good,” said Armie. He sounded a little breathless.

Timmy smiled. Then he slipped his hands underneath Armie’s shirt and skimmed his fingers along the skin of Armie’s stomach.

“I’m going to take your shirt off, okay?” said Timmy.

Armie simply raised his arms to allow Timmy to remove his shirt. Timmy did, then tossed it aside and stepped back.

His breath caught in his throat. Armie was beautiful. He took in the expanses of bronze skin, the toned muscles, and it was all he could do to hold back and not devour everything he saw.

“You’re beautiful,” he whispered. He raised his gaze to Armie’s face. Armie was watching him, his eyes shining in the light from the bedside lamp. “You’re so beautiful.”

“I please you?” Armie asked.

“ _Yes._ Armie—“ he caught the look in Armie’s eyes and understood, finally.

Armie had been thinking — for years — that Timmy didn’t like him, wasn’t happy with him. That he wasn’t doing well, wasn’t fulfilling his purpose. _Fuck_ , it was worse than Timmy had thought. More than being lonely, Armie had actually thought that he wasn’t good enough.

Timmy surged forward, snaking his arms around Armie’s waist and pressing close. “You are perfect. Perfect.”

Armie gazed down at him. “I have not always pleased you,” he said. “I’m trying to do better.”

“No,” said Timmy. “No, you don’t have to do better. Before, that was...you were perfect. You weren’t doing anything wrong.”

“You weren’t happy,” said Armie.

“Yeah, but that wasn’t your fault. You can’t comfort someone who doesn’t want to be comforted. Trust me. I was the asshole. I’m so sorry I made you feel like you weren’t good enough, because you were. You are.”

Timmy rested his cheek against Armie’s chest, nuzzling into the soft hair there. He could hear Armie’s heart beating steadily, and he felt, in that moment, like he could happily remain in this position forever.

He realized he was wrong when, a moment later, he felt Armie wrap his arms around Timmy’s frame — gently at first, then more firmly — and pull him close.

Timmy sighed. _This_. This was the position he could stay in forever.

He traced his fingers up and down Armie’s spine, around his shoulder blades, along the waistband of his pants.

Under his cheek, Armie’s heartbeat sped up. Timmy felt his own pulse increase in response. He drew back and pulled Armie towards the bed, pushed him gently to sit on the end.

Carefully, Timmy moved to straddle Armie, his knees on either side of Armie’s waste. He sank down to place his lips on Armie’s neck again, kissing and sucking his way down Armie’s clavicle towards his toned shoulder. “You don’t have to wait for instruction,” Timmy murmured against Armie’s skin. “Just do whatever you think...feels good to you.”

Armie didn’t seem to need anything further. Timmy jumped slightly when he felt Armie’s palms settle on his ass, and then hummed his approval when Armie squeezed. He couldn’t help but grind his hips forward into Armie’s and grinned when Armie let out a small groan.

Encouraged, he pushed Armie backwards onto the bed, and then nudged him up until he was lying on it properly and Timmy could have unfettered access to the full expanse of Armie’s chest and stomach. He ran his nose and his lips wherever they could reach, paying special attention to the taut muscles on Armie’s stomach, since that was what seemed to make Armie respond the most, shivering and sighing and tugging at Timmy’s hair.

“I’m going to...can I take off the rest?” Timmy asked softly, after a while.

Armie blew out a breath. “You too,” he said. “Please. Sir.”

Timmy nodded and immediately pulled his shirt over his head. This delayed the rest of the removal of clothes, because Armie wasted no time in using his large palms to caress every inch of Timmy’s newly exposed skin. Now it was Timmy’s turn to shiver and sigh.

Eventually, he shifted down the bed and let his hands skim along Armie’s waist until he could unfasten Armie’s belt and undo his pants. Watching Armie carefully, he drew Armie’s pants and boxers down his legs, caressing Armies thighs and calves on the way down. When he had discarded the clothes to the side, he sat back and took a good long look at his Helper.

Timmy’s mouth went dry at the sight of Armie’s cock, now fully erect and utterly magnificent. “Wow,” he murmured. He reached out to touch, and then paused. He looked up into Armie’s eyes.

Armie was watching him, and his eyes has gone darker still. Timmy smiled. “Still good?” he asked.

“Yes, sir,” said Armie. His voice sounded thicker, and then he swallowed.

Timmy trailed his fingers down Armie’s stomach until he reached Armie’s cock, and took it lightly in his right hand, giving it a soft stroke.

The sound Armie made caused Timmy to jump. It was more of a yelp than a moan.

Timmy immediately released Armie’s dick but didn’t move away. Instead, he placed a hand on Armie’s stomach, anxious to maintain contact. “You okay?” he asked. Armie was breathing heavily.

“Yes, sir,” Armie managed.

“Should I...not do that again?” he asked.

“You...can.” Armie didn’t sound sure.

“Did it hurt?” asked Timmy, though he couldn’t imagine why it would.

“No,” said Armie.

“Okay,” said Timmy. Maybe he had just surprised Armie.

He circled his hand around Armie’s cock again and this time stroked it twice. Armie didn’t yelp this time, but his moan sounded...like he was desperately close to coming.

Timmy let go and crawled up the bed until he could stretch out beside Armie. “Hey,” he said. “Has anyone...ever touched you like that?”

Armie shook his head. “No, sir.”

Of course no one had. What had Timmy been thinking? But surely Armie took care of himself. There was only one way to find out.

“Armie, do you jerk off? I mean...touch yourself?” he asked.

“No, sir,” said Armie. “A Helper must not pleasure himself.”

_Holy shit._

“Wait, what?” Timmy asked.

“A Helper must not pleasure himself,” Armie recited. “His pleasure is unimportant unless provoked for the Master’s pleasure.”

_Oh, god._ Timmy squeezed his eyes shut. How was it possible that he kept learning more and more of about the Helper’s Rules shit that was horrifying?

Well, he’d fix it all. One by one he’d dismantle the bars that Helper training had erected around Armie’s potential for happiness. He opened his eyes and looked at Armie, trying to communicate his sincerity with his eyes.

“Armie, listen to me,” he said. “If you want to jerk off — pleasure yourself — you can, okay? You don’t have to _not_ do it because of some rule.”

“But a Helper —“

“No, that’s bullshit. Look. I’m the Master, right? Well, I say you’re allowed. Go to town. Have fun.”

Armie hesitated, and then nodded. “Now, sir?”

“I meant in general. You’re always allowed, got it?” Timmy smoothed his hands over Armie’s cheeks. “You’re allowed.”

When he was sure Armie had taken in the instruction, Timmy asked his next question. “So have you _ever_ jerked off? Pleasured yourself, I mean?”

Armie frowned slightly, and then nodded. “A long time ago,” he said.

A long time ago. Probably before Armie left for training. That meant the guy hadn’t gotten off in ten years.

_Ten fucking years._

Or...not fucking, technically. Jesus Christ. Well, Timmy was suddenly very clear about one thing: that streak was about to be broken.

Timmy scratched his fingers through Armie’s hair, and Armie leaned into the touch.

“I’m going to take care of you tonight,” he murmured. “Same stuff applies, though. Only what you want.”

Armie hummed as Timmy continued to play with his hair. “I like that,” he said. “When you do that.”

“Good.” Timmy kissed Armie’s cheek, and then began his journey south again. He was careful to touch Armie everywhere but his dick, worried that once he did, it would be all over. He tasted every bit of Armie’s skin that he could reach, reveling in _finally_ being able to do what he had longed to do for eons. He took his cues from the soft sounds Armie made, the little groans and sighs that told Timmy he was doing things that Armie liked.

At last, he decided it was time. “Armie,” he whispered, “just hang on and...enjoy this.”

Then he opened his mouth and closed his lips around Armie’s cock.

Armie grunted and thrusted up hard, but Timmy was ready, gripping Armie’s hips and pushing him back down into the mattress. He let the salty bitterness of precome coat his tongue and began to move up and down, licking and sucking as Armie moaned.

Without warning, he pulled off. “Armie,” he said, “what do you want?”

Armie was breathing hard, his hands grabbing at fistfuls of the sheets. He didn’t answer.

“Tell me what you want,” said Timmy. “Please. What do you _want_?”

Armie let out a whimper. Then, to Timmy’s surprise, he reached down, grabbed Timmy’s biceps, and hauled him up the mattress so that he was lying on top of Armie.

“ _You_ ,” said Armie, his breath hot in Timmy’s ear. “I want _you_.” He fastened his lips around Timmy’s ear and _sucked_.

Now it was Timmy’s turn to moan as Armie began to thrust up against him. His cock hardened further, still trapped in his pants.

“Okay, hang on,” Timmy breathed. “Just give me...one…” He rolled off of Armie as he spoke, yanking at his pants and boxers until he was able to kick them off. Then he rolled back.

The first head-to-toe contact drew a strangled gasp out of them both. Timmy scrambled for leverage, managing to get his knees onto the bed between Armie’s and thrust against him, biting at his neck. Armie’s hand came down on Timmy’s ass and pulled him closer, tighter, increasing the friction.

“Jesus christ,” Timmy gasped. “Fuck — Armie — do you want — can I —”

“Anything,” said Armie. “Anything.”

“Okay, I...hang on.” Timmy rolled away again, towards the nightstand. He found what he was looking for and took a deep breath. He was actually going to do this. He was going to _do_ this, and Armie…

Before he could get completely overwhelmed and lose focus, Timmy moved back between Armie’s legs, nudging them gently apart.

“Keep talking to me,” said Timmy. “Keep...telling me what you like, and what you want.”

“Yes, sir,” said Armie. “I...will.”

Timmy smiled and dropped a kiss on the tip of Armie’s cock, drawing another sharp inhale from Armie. Then he popped open the lube, drizzled some on his fingers, and held his breath.

The first touch of his fingers to Armie’s pucker made him shudder. “Doing okay?” asked Timmy.

“Mmmm,” said Armie. “Yes.”

Timmy continued to stroke and circle softly, grinning at the way Armie began to writhe on the bed in response, shifting his rib cage from side to side.

“Here we go,” Timmy whispered, then pushed inside to the knuckle in one smooth motion.

Armie let out a high whine, and clenched around his finger. Timmy gave him a second to adjust, and then pulled halfway out and pushed back in. He set up a rhythm, and then crooked his finger and changed the angle.

“Ah — god —” Armie began to push his ass downwards, driving Timmy’s finger deeper and deeper, chasing his pleasure. Timmy let him for a minute, and then added another finger.

After a few more minutes, Timmy pulled his hand away, drawing another whine from Armie.

“Sir,” Armie gasped, “please…”

Timmy felt an elation he didn’t know was possible wash over him. The nerves were gone. Armie was asking him for something, something for _Armie’s_ pleasure, and not for Timmy’s. He couldn’t _wait_ to give him what he wanted.

He positioned himself and lined his slicked cock up with Armie’s hole. “Ready?” he asked. “This might hurt at first, so—”

“I’m ready,” said Armie. “ _Please_.”

Timmy complied, sliding inside more easily than he would have guessed. Still, it was tight, and he began a series of short thrusts, inching his way deeper.

“God,” he gasped. “Fuck. Armie — you feel so fucking…”

And then he was all the way in, and he fell forward onto Armie’s chest, bracing himself with his forearms. He reached up and smoothed Armie’s hair off of his forehead. Armie’s eyes were squeezed tight, and his jaw was tense.

“Hey,” he whispered. He kissed the underside of Armie’s jaw. “You still with me?”

Armie’s eyes flickered open. There were lines of tension around his mouth, but he nodded. “Yes,” he said.

“It hurts?”

Armie nodded and swallowed.

“Okay, just try to relax,” said Timmy. He pushed himself back up and cradled Armie’s cock, which had softened to half-mast. He began to stroke it slowly, adding a little more lube to ease the way.

Minutes later, Armie began to moan again, and he was fully hard. Timmy felt his muscles relaxing and and opening up.

“There you go,” Timmy whispered. “I’m going to move now. Tell me if it’s not good.”

He pulled out slightly, and then pushed back inside, keeping his thrusts shallow and continued to work Armie’s cock. Armie was breathing hard, making a series of soft sounds that made it very difficult for Timmy to hold back. But hold back he did, because he wanted — no, he _needed_ — this to be good for Armie.

He changed the angle of his hips, searching for that spot that would help Armie turn the corner, and when Armie yelled, he knew he had found it.

“Better?” he asked through clenched teeth. He wasn’t going to last much longer, but he was going to make sure that Armie came first if it killed him.

Armie’s only answer was to writhe beneath him and shudder. Timmy began to thrust harder, his balls slapping against Armie’s ass, now holding nothing back, nailing Armie’s sweet spot over and over.

In no time at all, Armie let out a strangled cry and came, coating Timmy’s hand and his own chest. It took only three more thrusts for Timmy to follow right behind.

He collapsed on top of Armie, breathing hard. When he could speak again, gently pulled out and lifted his head. Armie was staring up at the ceiling, looking sort of dazed.

“You okay?” he asked.

“Yes, sir,” said Armie softly. “I...thank you.”

Timmy hummed and kissed Armie’s cheek. “I should be thanking _you_ ,” he said.

“I’m falling asleep,” Armie murmured. “I’m sorry, I can’t seem to…”

“Sleep,” said Timmy. “I’ll clean up. You relax.”

“Thank you, sir,” Armie sighed, as his eyes drifted closed. “That was good.”

“It was perfect,” whispered Timmy. “You’re perfect. Absolutely perfect.”

_And I love you_ , he thought. But he swallowed that down. He couldn’t say that. Not yet.

Even if it was true.

He watched Armie sleep for a while, stroking his fingers along Armie’s cheeks and jaw, tracing over his lips. Timmy wanted to taste those lips again. He imagined doing it right now, placing a soft kiss and seeing how it felt.

He didn’t. The first time he had kissed Armie had been fucking incredible. The next time...Timmy didn’t like to think about that if he could help it. They had come a long way since then, and it was possible that now it could be even better than that first time.

And yet, Timmy wasn’t ready. What if it wasn’t good? What if Armie merely allowed it to happen and didn’t kiss him back? What they had just done had suggested that — maybe — that wouldn’t be the case. Kissing was _different_ , though. Sex...you could draw responses out of someone as long as attraction was there. Kissing could be fun, but _kissing_ required something else. He didn’t think he’d be able to survive kissing Armie again if Armie couldn’t really respond with the same feeling. That was okay. He could wait, forever if necessary.

But it was certainly going to distract him in the meantime.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My extra time is about to evaporate, so I'll do my best to update soon but it won't be as frequently. Feel free to ping me on Tumblr (onlyastoryteller) to yell at me.


	12. The Cake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath and then some.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we're back!
> 
> Thanks for your patience as my work schedule went haywire. I swear to you I was working on this. I can't not work on it, it seems...and yet sometimes I would literally fall asleep in the middle of sentences.
> 
> That's how much I wanted to bring you this chapter, which is basically straight out of my dream cinema.
> 
> I hope it's worth it!
> 
> 100% fiction, of course.
> 
> Much love.

[Chalamazed](https://twitter.com/chalamazed/status/1108536473559728128)

* * *

_Sir._

_Sir...sir...sir._

As Timmy emerged from sleep, the first thing he heard was the sound of Armie calling for him. The second thing he heard sounded like…

He opened his eyes to find Armie curling into him, his entire body shuddering as he sobbed into Timmy’s shoulder.

Sleep fell away instantly, and Timmy turned toward Armie, panic shooting through his chest and stomach. He grappled with his Helper, trying to see his face, but Armie collapsed into his chest.

“Armie, what — my God, are you hurt? What's going on?” His first thought, the one that made him immediately nauseated, was that _he_ had hurt Armie somehow, that their activities of the night before had caused some damage that he hadn't seen. “Please, talk to me, are you in pain?”

Armie was shaking his head back and forth against Timmy’s chest. “I'm sorry, sir, I'm sorry,” he gasped, in between sobs.

“You don't have to be sorry. Just...tell me what's wrong.” Timmy threaded his fingers through Armie’s hair and then stroked down Armie’s back. He was relieved when, at his touch, the sobs lessened.

Armie’s words were muffled against Timmy’s chest before the sobs increased again.

_Fuck._ Timmy didn't know what to do. His stomach twisted over and over as he wracked his brain, trying to come up with something — anything — to explain what was happening. Maybe Armie was in pain, or maybe he hadn’t really wanted what had happened last night. Maybe Timmy had misread his reactions. Maybe he thought he had done something wrong. Maybe...

“Baby,” said Timmy, trying to keep his voice calm even though he felt anything but, “please. I can help, I promise. Tell me what you need. What’s going on? Why are you—”

Armie pulled away from Timmy’s chest, which was now glistening with tears. “I don’t know why,” he said. “I’m sorry, sir, I don’t _know_.”

“Okay,” said Timmy. “It’s okay. Go ahead and cry if you need to, we’ll figure it out later.” He worked a hand under Armie’s chin and nudged his head up. He scooted down slightly so their faces were close, and tilted his head forward, resting his forehead against Armie’s. “It’s fine,” he murmured, wiping away tears from Armie’s cheeks with both thumbs.

Armie drew in a long breath and let it out, rubbing his forehead against Timmy’s. Tears continued to leak from the corners of his eyes, but the rib-cracking sobs seemed to have subsided.

“Good,” said Timmy. “That’s good. Breathe. I’m not going anywhere, okay?”

“Mmmmhmm.” Armie took several more long, steady breaths.

Timmy continued to stroke his hands over Armie’s face, through his hair, down his back. Armie continued to cry, his sobs increasing and then decreasing as Timmy talked him through each bout.

As he lay in bed, desperately trying to comfort his Helper, something occurred to Timmy that made his fear over what was happening fade a little.

Armie was _crying_.

He hadn’t seen Armie cry since...they were kids. Certainly not since he had come back from training, which made sense. If you couldn’t feel emotions, you couldn’t cry. And yet…

By the time Armie had cried himself to sleep, Timmy’s concern had been mostly replaced by something much more powerful.

Hope.

* * *

They didn’t talk about Armie’s crying jag right away. When he woke up again a few hours later, still cradled in Timmy’s arms, his eyes red and puffy, Armie didn’t bring it up. Before Tim could ask, Armie pressed Timmy onto his back and kissed his neck, uttering one single word, “Please.”

Timmy murmured, “yes,” and Armie began an exploration that left Timmy breathless and seeing stars. Before Armie could coax an orgasm out of him with his hands and mouth — though it was a close thing — Timmy reversed their positions. He then spent the better part of an hour listening to Armie’s breathless moans until Armie exploded into his mouth, hands fisted in Timmy’s hair. Hearing the way Armie’s voice broke as he crested drew a moan from Timmy as well, and it only took a few quick strokes before he was spilling all over the sheets.

Timmy crawled his way back up the bed and collapsed in a heap at Armie’s side.

“Feeling better?” he asked, touching his fingers lightly to Armie’s cheeks.

“Yes, sir,” said Armie. “I am feeling better.”

“Do you want to talk about what happened? If you don't want to, that's okay. But if I can help…”

He trailed off and waited. Armie lay on his back, one arm flung over his head. He lifted his other arm and Timmy snuggled under it.

“I am not...I don't know what happened,” he said quietly.

“Was there maybe something that made you sad?” Timmy asked, playing with the fine hair on Armie’s chest.

Armie was quiet for a while. “I don't think I was only sad,” he said, when he spoke again. “I kept thinking about...you. Your office. Last night. It was...like I was very full. But I didn’t feel very sad.”

Timmy thought about that. “It sounds like you were overwhelmed, and it just...spilled out.”

“I'm sorry I woke you up,” said Armie.

“I’m glad you did.” Timmy pulled Armie closer. “You can always wake me up if you need me.”

They lay quietly for a while. Eventually, Timmy heard Armie’s breathing slow, indicating he had slipped back into sleep. He smiled. It made him feel warm inside to know that Armie had become comfortable enough with him to just drift off like that, in the middle of the morning.

On the other hand, Timmy found himself feeling energetic. He lifted his head and craned his neck to see the clock. It was after ten.

Carefully, he extricated himself from Armie, then pulled the covers up around him to replace some of the lost warmth. Armie sighed and snuggled under them.

Timmy snagged his discarded boxers and ventured into the kitchen, with a vague idea of preparing breakfast. He spotted the dishes from dinner the night before and decided to make himself useful. Once the dishes were washed, he poured some cereal into bowls, set them on a tray with the milk, glasses of juice, and a couple of apples, and returned to the bedroom.

Armie was still asleep, so Timmy set the tray on the dresser and went to take a shower.

A short while later, he emerged from the shower, drying his hair with a towel. Armie was awake. He was standing at the dresser wearing his boxers, staring at the tray of breakfast, his back to Timmy.

“You found breakfast,” said Timmy. “I thought we could eat it in bed...Armie?” He took a step forward, because Armie hadn’t moved or responded to him in any way, which was unusual these days.

When Armie turned, he moved stiffly. He cast his eyes at the floor.

“I apologize, sir,” he said.

The tone of his voice — detached, solemn — sent a chill down Timmy’s spine. _No. Not today,_ he thought. He tossed his towel back in the bathroom and crossed the room.

“Apologize for what?” Timmy asked, keeping his voice gentle and soothing. “I told you I'm glad you woke me before. Is this about that?”

“I am failing,” said Armie. “You have done the dishes and made breakfast, while I slept in a bed that I soiled and didn’t clean.”

_Fuck_ , he was backsliding. Okay, Timmy could deal with this. It would be fine.

Timmy reached out and took Armie’s hands in his.

“Armie, listen to me. You are _not_ failing. Remember, _I_ told you to leave the dishes last night. I decided to take care of them, and that's because I _wanted_ to. I wanted you to sleep more, I wanted to bring us breakfast. And the bed…” Timmy smiled. “ _We_ made a mess but I don't care. I'm _glad.”_

He paused. Armie’s eyes flickered up to him and then back down, and he stayed silent.

Timmy moved forward and wrapped his arms around his Helper. “Do you remember _how_ we made the mess? What we did?”

He kissed Armie’s chest. He hated how stiff Armie was in his arms, but he kept kissing his chest and neck, his jaw, until Armie sighed. Timmy melted against Armie in relief when he felt strong arms on his back, pulling him close.

“Yes,” Armie said. “I remember.” He kissed the top of Timmy’s head.

“What do you think?” Timmy asked. “Should we get back in bed and eat this highly sophisticated breakfast I prepared with all my culinary skills?”

The relief he felt when Armie huffed a laugh was enough to make his knees shake.

* * *

On Wednesday, Timmy spent most of the day thinking about Armie. Not that that was strange. Since things had changed, he spent most of _most_ days thinking about Armie. Okay, that had been happening for pretty much ever, even before things changed.

The difference was that now, when he thought about Armie, instead of feeling like his chest was a gaping black void, sucking anything positive he might ever feel into its inky depths, he felt...like the sun itself had taken up residence and that, if he looked in a mirror, he’d see it glittering from his pores, glowing and pulsing and providing _life_.

That night, he was feeling exactly that as Armie walked toward him with a dinner plate. They were eating later, now that Timmy wanted to cook _with_ Armie. Armie was a good teacher. Quiet, gentle, supportive, never making Timmy feel bad when he — just for example — accidentally poured an entire container of sea salt into the chili.

“I love you,” he said.

Armie paused, the plate two inches from the table.

“It’s okay if you don’t want to — or can’t — say anything back. I’m not...I think I probably have enough to cover both of us. I just...I think I just…” He opened and closed his mouth a few times, and finally landed on, “I wanted you to know.”

After a moment, Armie set the plate on the table. As he turned away, he said, “I made carrot cake. For dessert. As a surprise.”

Timmy grinned so hard for so long he had trouble swallowing his chicken.

* * *

The following Friday morning, after a round of mind-blowing morning sex, Timmy was still grinning. He grinned his way through getting dressed for work. As he was fastening his cufflinks, he pulled up his calendar to check what he had going on that day.

August twenty-eighth.

It was August twenty-eighth. The date never failed to hit him like a punch in the gut, and his grin disappeared instantaneously.

August twenty-eighth was usually the day the he got the _most_ drunk. The day he called in sick to work, spent the day at a bar, and stumbled home to waste his Johnny Walker Blue with the intention of blacking out so that most of the day would be erased.

August twenty-eighth was the anniversary of the day Armie had left him for good.

He hadn’t seen it coming this year. Usually, he marked it out a month in advance, made arrangements to be missing for the day, made excuses to work, his family, anyone else who might be looking for him. _I have a doctor’s appointment, sorry there’s a family funeral, business trip in the works_. Whatever excuse worked for whatever part of his life he needed to let him go.

But this year, it had crept up on him. He hadn’t been thinking about it. Maybe this year he didn’t _need_ to go into hiding, numb the feelings and silence his thoughts.

This year, Armie was...well, not back, but not _gone_ anymore, either.

He took stock of how he felt, after the initial shock had worn off. There was still a slight sickness in the pit of his stomach as he remembered that day ten years ago. _Ten fucking years ago_. Maybe it was time to finally let it go. Move on.

Not only that, but...August twenty-eighth wasn’t _just_ the day he lost Armie. It was also Armie’s birthday. Timmy had ignored it for the past nine years, unable to bear celebrating on a day that caused him so much anguish. And Armie had never said anything.

Maybe it was time for that to change. A smile spread across his face as he considered the idea, and the pit in his stomach dissolved to almost nothing.

Out in the kitchen, Timmy sipped his coffee and watched Armie expertly flip an omelette...much better than just cereal.

“I was thinking,” he said, “that it would be fun to have dinner out tonight.”

Armie shook the skillet. “Yes, sir,” he said. “Shall I call somewhere and make reservations for you? For how many?”

“No, don’t worry about it,” said Timmy. “I’ll do it. But I’m going to send someone by to see you today, around ten. His name is Ricardo, and he’s a friend of mine. Just do whatever he needs, and let me know when he leaves.”

“Yes, sir,” said Armie.

Timmy smiled. He had come up with a plan that he rather liked. It was an experiment. It might be a disaster. But...it might work out just fine.

That afternoon, he received a text from Armie.

_Sir, Ricardo has left._

Timmy grinned. Following directions to the letter, as usual.

_Great,_ he replied. _How does it fit?_

There was a long pause before he received a response.

_It is a very nice suit, and it fits well._

Timmy rolled his eyes. _I’ll be home at six,_ he said. _Wear the suit. Be ready to leave._

He was on pins and needles for the rest of the day. He had sent his tailor over to fit Armie for a suit, something he didn’t have. He was anxious to see how it looked. He had never seen Armie dressed up before, and the idea of it was...well, it distracted him from his work fairly successfully for the remainder of the afternoon, at any rate.

What he was about to do was a little — okay, a lot — unorthodox. But no one needed to know that. No one would be able to see Armie's Helper tattoo, and if he behaved the way he had been since the weekend — there had been no further lapses — they'd look like two people out on a date.

Which was exactly what Timmy hoped.

When he walked in the front door at six, his nerves were jumping. Maybe this had been a dumb idea. Maybe he should just cancel the reservations and they could eat at home. He could ask Armie to teach him how to make something. They could go to bed early. Maybe—

Armie walked around the corner, and smiled.

Timmy felt his heart thud twice, and swallowed.

_Holy fuck._ Armie in a suit was…

“Wow,” he managed. “You look fantastic.”

Ricardo had done an amazing job. Armie was wearing a perfectly-fitted blue and purple plaid with a white shirt and a burgundy tie, which should have looked ridiculous. Instead, it made Timmy's mouth water.

Armie tugged at his suit jacket. “Thank you, sir,” he said. “For the suit, and the compliment.”

“Let's go, if you're ready,” said Timmy.

They took a cab to the restaurant, and soon were led to a private table in the corner. Timmy thanked the maitre d’ and passed him a tip. When he turned to Armie with a grin, Armie was looking around, a slightly worried expression on his face.

“What's the matter?” Timmy asked.”You don't like the table?”

“There are only two chairs,” said Armie. “And not much space to stand. I am not sure...where you would like me.”

_Oh._ Armie thought Timmy was meeting someone and he was along to provide assistance of some kind. Timmy shook his head. He should have made this clearer sooner.

“The chairs are for you and me,” Timmy said.  He pulled out one of them and gestured at it with a flourish. “Have a seat.”

Armie paused, and then sat. Timmy sat across from him.  Armie looked uncomfortable, glancing around furtively, as if he was doing something wrong, but Timmy just pretended like this was something they did every day. By the time a waiter had brought a bottle of wine and poured a glass for each of them, Armie had settled down.  

“Armie, do you have any idea what today is?” he asked.

With a frown, Armie said, “It's Friday. The twenty-eighth of August. I'm sorry, sir, did something happen at work? A promotion?”

“No. But does August twenty-eighth mean anything to you?” Timmy waited, hopeful. Armie had seemed to be doing so well, lately...maybe there was a chance he would remember. “We’re celebrating tonight, that's why I wanted to take you out to dinner.”

Armie’s brows furrowed. “I...it's…” Finally, he blinked. “It's the day I began my formal Helper training. Of course. That's...a reason to celebrate, because...it made me a proper Helper.”

“Oh, Armie.” Timmy’s heart broke into forty-six pieces, again. “No. That's not why...that day, the day they took you away from me? I'll never want to celebrate _that_.” He reached across the table and took Armie’s hand. “I never needed you to be anything other than you were. And now I…don't need you to be anything other than you are. Okay? You're perfect as is.”

Armie's cheeks turned pink, and Timmy grinned. If Armie was feeling embarrassment, well...they had come a long way in the past few months.

“We’re celebrating your birthday,” he said gently.

“My birthday.” Armie blinked at him. ”I...had forgotten.”

Timmy squeezed his hand. “You remember now?”

“Yes. I just...a Helper is not to draw unnecessary attention to himself by requesting special consideration, praise, or acknowledgement beyond reinforcement and correction necessary to perform his duties.”

Timmy rolled his eyes. “Right. Okay. But how do I feel about all those bullshit Helper rules?”

Armie licked his lips. “You don't agree with them.”

“And the most important thing is what I say, right? That's straight from your Helper’s Purpose, after all.”

Armie nodded.

“So if I want to give you special consideration, praise...or acknowledgement that's my right. I say we celebrate your birthday from now on.” He squeezed Armie's hand again, then let it go.

“Sir, can I...ask a question?” Armie ran his finger up and down the length of his fork.

“Of course,” said Timmy.

“I just wondered. Why do you...disagree with all of the Helper rules?”

“Because…” Timmy considered how best to answer the question. Finally, he said, “Because I think they tell you that you’re not allowed to be who you are. That who you are, as a person, is less important than your status as a Helper. I think that’s what they try to reinforce, right? That you’re a Helper first, and...and _Armie_ second. I don’t agree with that premise. You might be a Helper, but beyond that, you’re _you_. You should be allowed to be you, even if you’re a Helper.”

Armie frowned. Timmy waited. He knew from the look on Armie’s face that he was thinking over what Timmy had said.

“But sir...I _am_ a Helper first,” said Armie. “I think that’s true. Whatever else I am, what would I be if I wasn’t a Helper? So that has to be the most important.”

“No,” said Timmy. “See? That’s exactly what I don’t agree with. If you weren’t a Helper, you’d be…”

He trailed off. What would Armie have been, if not for his Helper status?

With his intelligence and sharp grasp of logic, he could have been almost anything. Gone into scientific research, law, politics. With his ease with multiple languages, rhetoric, and writing, he could have been a diplomat, an educator, a…

Timmy swallowed a mouthful of bitter saliva. _What a fucking waste,_ he thought. Instead of doing all of those things, instead of changing the world, he’d been living in Timmy’s shadow for twenty-two fucking years. Doing his laundry and cooking his meals and...just sitting and _waiting_ to be needed in some way.

That was _before_ , though, Timmy reminded himself. Before Armie had gone away and come back different. When they were kids, if he had continued on that path, he could have been all of those great things. _After_ , all of that seemed to be gone. Much of it was still gone, as far as Timmy could tell.

If Helpers really did lose their grasp of reasoning and their ability to feel emotions and became sort of helpless, it made some sense for them to have someone to belong to, who could watch out for them and provide them with a way to have a useful life.

But Armie...was feeling emotions. Was demonstrating intelligence and reasoning again. So...what was the explanation? Was Armie just _different_ somehow, exceptional? Was it the fact that Timmy loved him, the bond they had forged as kids that saved him from being in near-constant Helper mode?

Maybe that was it. Maybe not. Maybe it was something...else. It tickled the back of his brain, and he was afraid that if he looked at it too closely, something fragile would become very broken.

And Armie was looking at him expectantly, and he needed to give him an answer to his question. He could think more about this later, when he wasn’t supposed to be celebrating Armie’s birthday.

He forced himself to smile. “You’d be my best friend. I told you that a long time ago. Armie, you’re so much more than a Helper. I didn’t become best friends with a Helper. Or...fall in _love_ with a Helper. It was _you_.” He reached across the table and took Armie’s left hand, sliding his thumb underneath the cuff of Armie’s shirtsleeve to stroke Armie’s Helper mark. “You may be my Helper, but you’re also...you’re _everything_.”

“Everything,” Armie whispered. Something flickered in his eyes, and then he smiled. “Thank you,” he said.

“Do you understand why I hate the Helper rules? They’re supposed to create a perfect Helper, but that doesn’t work for me. I mean, we were both miserable for so long, right? Following the Helper rules may have made you a ‘perfect’ Helper, but it wasn’t what I needed. I needed _you._ ”

Armie nodded. “Did you...is that why you didn’t want me? I know you...thought about...giving me up.”

Timmy went cold. “What?” he asked.

“When you went away to school. You left me, and...I heard your father talking about how you might decide to give me to someone else. Another Master.” Armie’s voice was quiet, but Timmy detected the fear in it.

“Hold on a second,” he said, grabbing both of Armie’s hands. “Look at me, okay? I never — _never_ — considered giving you up. Never. That was just my dad wondering if it would be better for me if I did, but I...I couldn’t. Not even then, when seeing you hurt me more than...I couldn’t. I won’t. You don’t have to worry about that, ever.”

Timmy blinked back tears, desperate to hold Armie’s gaze. He needed Armie to know he was serious about this. _Fuck_ , how was it possible for him to still be finding out all the ways that his behavior for the past nine years had hurt Armie?

“Does seeing me still...hurt you?” asked Armie, his voice barely above a whisper.

“ _No._ Fuck, no,” said Timmy. He realized, in that moment, that he meant it. It no longer hurt. He could look at Armie now and feel...happiness. There would always be a part of him that missed the parts of Armie that had been lost, but the Armie he saw in front of him now was still _Armie_ at his core. The person Timmy had fallen for over a decade ago was the same person he had fallen for anew.

Impulsively, he brought Armie’s hands to his lips and kissed his knuckles. Armie huffed out a breath, and looked like he was about to say something.  

The waiter cleared his throat, and Timmy released Armie’s hands and sat back in his chair, blushing slightly. Their dinners — two steaks — were set in front of them.

“Are we celebrating something tonight, gentlemen?” asked the waiter, after he had offered cracked pepper and topped off Timmy’s wine.

Timmy looked across the table and smiled. “It’s my boyfriend’s birthday,” he said. “He’s twenty-six.”

The waiter beamed, “Happy birthday, sir,” he said. “Let me know if either of you need anything else.”

When he moved away, Timmy picked up his knife and fork. As he began to slice into his filet mignon, he realized Armie was watching him.

“I think it’s time for a toast,” he said.

He picked up his wine glass, and pointed to Armie's. Armie wrapped his hand around his glass and lifted it an inch.

“To you. And...celebrating August twenty eighth. For the right reasons.” Timmy tapped his glass against Armie’s and, though Armie did so hesitantly, they drank.

* * *

They walked home from the restaurant instead of taking a cab, and Timmy reached out and took Armie’s hand. Armie didn’t pull away, and, for a little while, Timmy felt like he could pretend that things were a little simpler between them.

Back at his apartment, he pulled Armie down the hall and into the den, and sat him on the sofa.

“Now,” he said, “it’s time for your gifts.”

He hadn’t yet given Armie the gifts he had picked up a few weeks earlier, and was glad he hadn’t. This was the perfect time.

Armie looked shocked when Timmy dumped a handful of packages in his lap.

“Open them,” said Timmy. “I know they aren’t properly wrapped, but…”

Armie stared at the packages. “You didn’t have to...sir, you took me to dinner. And you...got me a suit. You...you held my hand. I don’t need—“

“Gifts aren’t supposed to be things you need,” said Timmy. “Not good ones. They’re supposed to be things you want. I don’t know if you want these. Or maybe you do but don’t know you do until you see them. Just open them.”

He dropped onto the sofa next to Armie and bounced up and down. Armie smiled at him, and fingered the edges of one of the bags, looking thoughtful. After a minute, he parted the paper and put his hand inside.

His brow furrowed. “A...book,” he said, sounding confused.

Armie pulled the book out of the bag and turned it over in his hands, running his fingers along the glossy spine and fanning the pages. He didn’t say anything, simply set it aside and then turned his attention to the next two packages with the same quiet focus.

Timmy watched anxiously. He had purchased these books because...because Armie had _kept_ his high school things for years. Had tried to trash them when he was upset. So he had some emotional connection to them. And if he had an emotional connection to those things, he wondered if these books would spark something else.

When Armie simply looked at the books in silence, Timmy’s heart sank a little.

“It’s okay if you don’t like them,” he said quietly, biting his lower lip. “I just thought maybe—“

Armie looked up, eyes wide. “I remember...this one,” he said, touching the smallest volume.

“You remember it?” Timmy sat forward, peering intently at Armie. “That’s _The Brothers Karamazov_. It was one of your favorites. Before. You were going to...read it in Russian. Once you learned Russian. But that one’s English. What do you...what do you remember about it?”

Armie opened it, stared at it a moment, and then shook his head. “Not...much. Nothing. Just...it. I remember _it_.”

“That’s great,” said Timmy. “You could read it...or I could read it to you. Or you could read it to me. Maybe you’d remember something else.”

Armie nodded. “Yes,” he said. “Thank you.”

“Do you want to read some now?” Timmy asked.

“No,” said Armie. He took the three books and set them on the side table. He stood.

Timmy stood with him. “Oh. Okay, that’s fine. We can put them on the shelf in here and if you want them you can just...come in and get them.”

Then Armie spoke again. “Thank you for this,” he said. “For dinner and...the suit, and the books.”

“You’re welcome.” Timmy shifted from one foot to the other. “I just thought—“

“I always knew,” said Armie. “Always...knew.”

“Knew what?”

“You. That you...sir, I...want…”

“What?” asked Timmy, his voice a whisper and his heart thudding in his ears. Armie was expressing something he wanted, for himself, directly. Timmy could hardly believe it, and he was afraid if he made too much noise, or moved _at all_ he could derail everything. So he held his breath, and waited.

“I want…” Armie took a step forward and tangled his fingers in Timmy’s hair, tugging his head to the side. “You’re so beautiful,” he murmured. “I want…”

He leaned down and fastened his lips on Timmy’s throat, pulling Timmy close against him. Timmy let him take control, let him nibble up Timmy’s neck to his ear and back down to his collarbone, let him slide his hands from Timmy’s waist to his ass.

Let him get a firm grip and _lift_ , so that before Timmy really knew what was happening, he was wrapping his legs around Armie’s waist and letting Armie grind them together, their ragged moans harmonizing in the charged air around them.

Armie carried Timmy out of the den and into the bedroom, let go with one hand to flip on the light, and then crawled up onto the bed, still keeping Timmy glued to his torso. He lowered Timmy onto the mattress and began to peel the layers of clothing away, covering each newly exposed inch of skin with his lips and tongue.

Timmy shuddered and sighed underneath him. If what Armie wanted for his birthday was to eat Timmy alive...well, he was fucking _fine_ with that.

Sometime after he nearly lost control the second time, he realized they were both completely naked. Armie ran a hand down his stomach, past his cock, and around his balls, and then paused. Slowly, he moved his hand lower and touched his index finger to Timmy’s hole.

Timmy bit his lip and tensed in anticipation.

“Sir,” said Armie. “I want to...can I…”

“Yes,” Timmy breathed. “Yes, anything you want.”

“I want to...do what you do. To me.”

Timmy nearly cried. He pulled Armie’s face close and kissed his cheek, his nose, his forehead. “Yes, yes, yes,” he murmured. “I want that too.”

Armie was careful and delicate with him. He would have expected nothing else. The first slide of his finger sent Timmy’s nerve endings into a frenzy, and that was just the beginning. Soon, Armie was pushing slowly inside, making soft whimpering sounds as he did.

It hurt, there was no denying it. But Timmy welcomed it. He welcomed the burn, the discomfort, the difficulty breathing, and would endure it over and over if he could just listen to Armie moan and see the look on his face forever.

When Armie began to move, slowly at first, and then with focused force, the pain gave way to something else. Timmy sighed and moved with him, feeling the tightness building at his core. But it was different that normal, lacking an urgency that Timmy was used to. Instead of feeling like he was holding himself back from racing to the finish line, he was feeling threads of warmth and giddy satisfaction flicker outward from his center to this hands, his feet, his tongue, his eyelids. He sank into the glow of it, rather than chasing the explosion of stars he knew was waiting down the line.

Armie’s thrusts became erratic, and without warning he reached down and slid his hand over Timmy’s cock. With a cry, Timmy came. He clenched around Armie, gasping, and Armie groaned, gave one last thrust, and stilled. Armie’s face was buried in Timmy’s neck, his breath hot and his lips grasping at the sensitive skin there. As Timmy’s heartbeat slowed, he snuck a finger under Armie’s chin and tugged.

His Helper’s eyes were closed, his long lashes painting a delicate spider web on his cheeks. His lips were curved upward in a contented smile, and Timmy felt a wave of satisfaction that _he_ had been responsible for putting that look there. And those lips...looked soft, and warm, and...

Unable to resist any longer, Timmy leaned in and pressed his lips against them.

There was no hesitation, no moment of adjustment, no second needed to respond. Armie’s lips moved against his, parting smoothly, his tongue sliding along Timmy’s without need for encouragement or instruction. Timmy hummed into Armie’s mouth, and the word _perfect_ skittered through his mind.

This was what he had been waiting for. _This_ was what he had been mourning for nine long years. This point of union, of _re-_ union. This connection of souls that he had once felt and had been chasing ever since.

Armie pulled back after a minute and gazed down at him. He breathed a single word, a word that made the space around them shimmer with the dust of a thousand stars.

_Timmy._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can yell at me on Tumblr if you like...I'm onlyastoryteller over there ;)


	13. The Blue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What comes after "Timmy."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I increased the chapter count by one because I ended up cutting this chapter in half from its original conception. I waffled on this for a while but I think this was the right choice, since the next bit I think works better as its own contained chapter. 
> 
> Thanks to dreamofhorses for being my personal cheerleader on this bit. It's her fault you're getting this tonight ;)
> 
> 100% fiction, as always.
> 
> Love to you all. We're rapidly closing in on the finish, and I hope you are ultimately satisfied with the resolution.

[Chalamazed](https://twitter.com/chalamazed/status/1108536473559728128)

* * *

 

Timmy’s heart stopped. He had heard that description before, and had always thought about it as hyperbole — surely one’s heart didn't literally _stop_ beating — but, as it turned out, it could happen, and it did.

It was like he had frozen. Like _time_ had frozen.

He stared up at Armie, afraid that, in the afterglow of their lovemaking, he had hallucinated. Had Armie actually called him _Timmy_? Timmy, and not Sir?

Slowly, experimentally, he tried moving his arm. To his shock, it worked. He lifted his hand cautiously towards Armie’s face, and laid it on his cheek. Armie was gazing down at him, his eyes gentle.

“Armie?” he whispered. “What...what did you…”

Armie closed his eyes, and when they fluttered open again they were no longer that soft, cozy grey Timmy had grown to appreciate.

Instead, they were a crystal blue. _Armie_ blue.

“Timmy,” Armie said, his voice breaking. “I...I’m sorry I'm so late.”

He leaned in and closed his mouth over Timmy’s in a kiss that was somehow even more perfect than the last. Timmy’s heart thudded to life, and he whimpered against Armie’s lips. His hand slid from Armie’s cheek into his hair, and to the nape of his neck. His other hand snuck around Armie’s waist to his lower back.

Timmy felt like he needed to pull Armie closer, closer, _closer_ , until the space between them — the gaping hole that had existed since that day ten years ago and that Timmy had thought was going to exist, in some way, forever — burned away into nothing. He tugged, and at the wordless signal, Armie melted into Timmy, his muscles releasing years of tension all at once and molding themselves around the planes of Timmy’s body, filling all of the pockets of air until Timmy could no longer tell where he ended and Armie began.

Eventually, their lips parted — barely — and Timmy’s eyes blinked open. Sometime during the kiss, they had rolled so that they were laying side by side, legs tangled together, cheeks on the same pillow. He found himself staring into the depths of Armie’s eyes.

_His_ Armie. Well, that wasn’t really accurate anymore. Timmy had spent years and years thinking about the Armie who had left him as _his_ Armie, and the one who returned as a substitute, but over the past few months, wasn’t that what had changed? He had stopped thinking about them as two separate individuals. Instead, he had come to think of the Armie he had as _his_ Armie as well.

Nevertheless, if Armie was really himself again, _really_ himself...how? What had triggered it? Would it last? Would he be the same? Would he remember the past ten years? Would he remember the past few months? Or would it all be wiped clean and...Timmy would have to start all over?

He didn’t know. All he knew in that moment was that Armie looked like Armie again.

" _There_ you are," whispered Timmy, tracing his fingers gently across Armie's brow. "Is it really...is it really you?”

Armie nodded, and then his blue eyes shimmered with unshed tears. His lower lip trembled.

“My god,” Timmy whispered. “My _god_. How did you...where did you go? You've been gone so _long_."  
  
Armie swallowed."I know," he said, his voice breaking. "I got...lost. I was so _lost_. I'm so sorry, Timmy. I tried, I swear I tried to get back, but I—”

“Shhh,” said Timmy. “It’s fine. I know. It’s not important, if you’re here now. And if...you won't go away again?" Timmy placed soft kisses on Armie's cheeks. "It might kill me if you did. It nearly killed me these past nine years, to have you here but not... _here_."  
  
"I won’t," said Armie. He buried his face in Timmy's neck, so that his final words were muffled. "I promise."

Timmy stroked Armie’s hair, trailed his fingers down Armie’s back, feeling him shudder at the touch. He could sense a wetness on his neck, and knew Armie was crying. He realized the pillow under his own cheek was also damp, and wondered how long tears had been streaming from his own eyes.

It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered. Nothing mattered, because Armie was whole again.

* * *

A while later, Armie took a deep breath and let it out, then pulled back so he could look at Timmy again. He dragged a palm across one eye and then the other, and then smiled.

“Hi,” he said.

Timmy giggled. He couldn’t help it. There were so many things he wanted to say, so many things he needed to _know_ , so many feelings he needed to express, but...a simple _hi_ seemed as good a place to start as any.

“Hi,” he replied. “I’ve missed you.”

“Me too,” said Armie. “I missed that laugh. _God_ …”

Then his eyes lit up, and the next thing Timmy knew, Armie was digging his fingers into Timmy’s ribs and Timmy was writhing around, laughing and gasping for air.

“Wait,” he said. “Fuck, stop, stop—”

“No,” said Armie.

Timmy clutched at Armie’s hands, but didn’t push them away. He twisted, but not away. Never away. Soon, he was crying again, out of something besides sadness.

Just when he thought he was going to pass out from lack of oxygen, Armie stilled, and then smoothed his palms soothingly over Timmy’s stomach and sides.

“Sorry,” he said, as Timmy’s heart slowed and he tried to get his lungs to obey him, “I couldn’t resist.” Then he swooped in and kissed Timmy again, stealing the recaptured breath right out of him and leaving him seeing stars once more.

“I don’t think anyone has tickled me in ten years,” Timmy said, when they had cuddled together again. “That felt…” — _like a release, like a coming home, like being saved —_ “amazing.” Armie was quiet, and Timmy kissed his nose. “What are you thinking?” he asked.

Armie frowned, and when he spoke, his voice was quiet and careful. “I was...you’ve said that now twice, that it’s been....” He drew a sharp breath before continuing. “Ten years. Has it really been that long?”

_Shit_ , Timmy thought. So maybe Armie didn’t remember anything of their life together the past nine years. Maybe that was for the best. Timmy swallowed, remembering how shitty he had behaved for most of that time.

“Yes,” he said. “Ten years exactly from when you walked out of my bedroom.”

“And promised to be back in three months. _Fuck_.” Armie squeezed his eyes shut. “I knew it was a while, but I didn’t realize...I’m so sorry, Timmy.”

“It’s not your fault,” Timmy said gently. “It’s not. I’m not mad or anything. I’m just glad you’re _you_ again. You don’t...you don’t remember anything?”

“I do,” said Armie. “I remember...I don’t know, a lot, I guess. It just...time didn’t make sense. I was...it was like I was under water. I could see and hear, but it was distorted and jumbled, and I felt like I was moving around on autopilot. Like I couldn’t...make decisions. Until recently. Recently...I remember more clearly.”

Timmy licked his lips. He was becoming slowly aware that they were wrapped around each other, completely naked. Which was _normal_ for them now, but Armie might not know that.

“Recently?” He asked. “So...you remember what we’ve been...doing? Lately?”

A smile spread slowly across Armie’s face. He wriggled his hips slightly. “Yeah,” he said. “When we’re together like that is when I’m — when I _was —_ the clearest. Closest to the surface. Almost able to reach you.”

He ran a warm palm down Timmy’s back and over the curve of his ass, giving it a light squeeze.

“I thought about this, you know, all the time. When I went away. You had _kissed_ me, and it was like...I got a glimpse of having what I’d wanted for what seemed like forever. All I could think about for those first few months was coming back home and getting a chance to...to _touch_ you. Just like this.” He trailed his fingers in long loops around Timmy’s hips, then up to his shoulder blades and back down. Timmy shivered at the gentle touch, but stayed silent.

Armie’s eyes had gone far away, as he remembered, and his voice was soft and dreamy. Timmy waited, sensing that he wasn’t done. When he spoke again, his tone was more subdued.

“After things didn’t...go the way we thought, I worried that if I took too long, you’d forget about me. Or move on. And _then_ I hoped you would do exactly that, when I started to...when I knew I wasn’t getting back to you anytime soon. Instead of worrying that you’d move on, I worried that you _would_ wait, and that would be...a shame. You deserved to be loved, and if I couldn’t do it, i hoped that you’d find someone who could.”

He swallowed. “Did you?” he asked. “I never...I mean obviously not anyone permanent, but did you at least find someone to love in the meantime?”

Timmy shook his head. “No,” he whispered. “Never. I did try, even though i didn’t want to. After you came back and weren’t...you...I tried. But there was never anyone who could compare.” He took Armie’s face in his hands and kissed him softly. “I told you this the other day. I don’t know if you remember it, but...Armie, I love you. I don’t think there was ever a chance for anyone else.”

Armie smiled. “I remember. I couldn’t quite...say the words back, even though I wanted to. But I tried to show you. I tried to show you all the time.”

He had, Timmy knew. For years, Armie had been showing him that, underneath the deadened exterior, he still cared for Timmy. Timmy had chalked it all up to Armie’s desire to be the perfect Helper, but...it was more than that. The tiny gestures, the way Armie always knew how to provide him with the small details that might make things easier for him, the _cake_...Armie had been telling him he loved him all along.

“Yeah,” Timmy said. “It took me a long time to figure that out. I’m — _fuck_ , I’m so sorry, Armie. I’m sorry I was so fucking stupid for so long.” His eyes filled again as he thought about the years he had ignored this man because he was too self-involved to see the truth.

“Hey,” said Armie. “Don’t. It’s okay. Look, I can say it now, I think.” He kissed the tears away from Timmy’s cheeks. “I love you.”

Timmy sighed at finally hearing the words. He nuzzled into Armie’s neck, and kissed the soft skin there.

“I know,” he said. He slid his fingers back and forth along Armie’s bicep. “But it’s amazing to hear you say it.”

“Good,” said Armie. “Because I plan to say it a lot.”

Armie shifted, and Timmy felt the covers pulled up and around him. He nestled into the warmth of Armie’s chest and hugged him close. Armie’s hands stroked soothingly along Timmy’s skin, and he felt all the tension slide out of him slowly. He breathed deeply, and then sighed happily.

“Are you sleepy?” asked Armie.

“Mmm. Maybe,” Timmy murmured. He was, he realized, and all of a sudden, like he had just dosed himself with a sleeping pill. He blinked his eyes, his lashes brushing against Armie’s skin. “I don’t want to be. I want to...talk to you. Ask you...about things.”

“Yeah,” said Armie. “Me too. But sleep now. We’ll have the morning.”

“You promise you won’t go anywhere while I sleep?” Timmy asked, stumbling a little over the words.

“I promise,” said Armie. “There’s nowhere else I want to be.”

* * *

Timmy came back to consciousness already halfway to orgasm.

“Ah... _god_ —” he croaked, trying to simultaneously thrust his hips and sit up to see what was going on. What he got for his trouble was a pulled neck muscle and a wave of dizziness.

Suddenly, Armie was looming over him, one corner of his mouth quirked up. “Good morning, sir,” he said.

_Sir_?

Timmy gasped as Armie slid back down his chest and began to lick and bite at his nipples.

“ _Fuck_ — wait —” Timmy grabbed at Armie and hauled him back up so he could look at him. He squeezed his eyes shut and then blinked them rapidly. “What did you say?”

Armie ducked his head and kissed Timmy. “I said, ‘Good morning.’ Took you long enough. I was wondering if I would be able to bring you all the way off before you opened your eyes.”

“No. You said, ‘Good morning, _sir_.’” Timmy peered at Armie. His eyes were still a crystal blue.

“Oh.” Armie paused. “Habit, I think. Do you not like that?”

“I do _not_ like that,” said Timmy. “Jesus. I thought for a second that you...that you were…”

Armie smiled. “Nope, still here,” he said. “I told you, I’m not going anywhere. Now, if that’s all, shhh. You’re making me lose my concentration.”

And he went back to torturing Timmy’s nipples.

The wave of relief and elation that had hit Timmy when he realized that Armie was still _Armie_ was quickly replaced by equally forceful waves of white hot need. Armie alternated his attentions between Timmy’s nipples and cock, and all Timmy could think — or utter — from then on was some combination of _yes, Armie, god, fuck, yes_ until Armie suddenly stopped.

He grabbed Timmy’s hips and rolled them over so that Timmy was now on top.

“I want you to fuck me,” said Armie. “Please.”

“You sure?” asked Timmy. “You could —”

“I’m sure,” said Armie, sliding his hand down his chest to grip Timmy’s dick, guiding him to exactly where he wanted him. “I’m ready. Now that I’m...me again...I want to know I’m still _yours_.”

The noise Timmy made at Armie’s last words could not be considered precisely human, but by the look on his face, Armie seemed pleased with it. He also hadn’t been lying when he said he was ready, and in moments, Timmy was buried up to his balls, biting the spot where Armie’s neck met his shoulder, as if this really was a claiming of a different sort.

Afterwards, they showered and — reluctantly, on Timmy’s part — dressed.

“What do you want for breakfast?” asked Armie, tugging on a pair of boxers. “I’m thinking pancakes.”

“Pancakes sound good,” said Timmy. “Wait...don’t make breakfast.”

Armie yanked a t-shirt over his head before responding. “Why not?”

“Because you...because. You don’t have to.” Timmy shifted uncomfortably. It had been one thing to have Helper Armie doing stuff for him all the time. It was another thing entirely for _Armie_ to be waiting on him.

Armie frowned. “I know I don’t have to,” he said. Then he smiled. “I want to make you breakfast. Why can’t I make you breakfast?”

Timmy rubbed the back of his hand against his mouth, and then scratched at his neck. “I don’t know, because...it’s _weird_ now.”

Armie stepped forward and grabbed Timmy’s hand, pulling it away from his neck and folding it in his own. “It’s not weird,” he said. “I like cooking. It’s sort of...it’s relaxing. I’m good at it, I think. It makes me feel like I can do something useful.”

That made things even worse, and Timmy shook his head. “That’s part of the problem,” he said. He racked his brain. How could he make Armie understand what was bothering him? “You don’t have to do something useful. You can just...be you. I don’t want you to like...wait on me and shit. Not anymore.”

“Oh. I get it,” Armie said. “Okay, then, how about this? _I want_ pancakes. Should I not get pancakes because you suddenly feel weird about me cooking for us? Should I trust _you_ to make them?” He smirked. “I don’t really want to have call the fire department and explain the scorch marks in the ceiling.”

Timmy chewed on his lip, and then relented. “Fine,” he said. “Make pancakes. But teach me how to do it, so we can take turns.”

Armie rolled his eyes. “Remind me to have the pizza place on speed dial for the days that it’s your turn.”

Timmy lunged at him, but he was quick, and took off out of the bedroom.

So they made pancakes. Armie decided he didn’t want _just_ pancakes...he wanted chocolate chip pancakes with whipped cream, and Timmy grinned so hard his face hurt. Chocolate chip pancakes with whipped cream had always been Armie’s favorite breakfast, so much that Timmy couldn’t ever bring himself to eat them again after Armie left for training.

If fewer drops of chocolate actually made it into the batter than were tossed across the kitchen as they attempted to catch them in their mouths, that was fine.

If Armie scooped up a finger full of whipped cream from the mountain on his plate and flung it at Timmy in the middle of the meal, that was fine.

If Timmy retaliated, that was fine.

And if Timmy ended up shirtless, sprawled out on his back on the kitchen floor, with Armie straddling his hips and spraying designs on his chest with whipped cream in order to lick them off and start again...that was _fine._

Later, after another shower and an hour spent cleaning up the kitchen, they settled on the sofa in the living room, gazing out the floor-to-ceiling windows at the view of the city. Armie had his back against the arm of the sofa, and Timmy was nestled between his legs, resting against Armie. He sat quietly for a while, feeling the rise and fall of Armie’s chest against his back, playing with Armie’s hands in his lap.

“I never sit out here,” he said suddenly. “It’s so pretty. But I never sit here.”

Armie tightened his arms around Timmy’s waist. “Is it the height?” he asked. “You’ve been shy about heights ever since we fell out of that stupid tree.”

“No, it’s…” Timmy trailed off. What was he going to say? That he never sat in the living room because there was too much of a chance he’d run into Armie? “I like the den,” he said lamely.

“Why?” asked Armie.

“It’s...cozy,” Timmy said. “I don’t know, it’s safe. I can sort of...hide in there.”

“Oh.” Armie trailed his fingers in a loop around Timmy stomach. “Hide from...me?”

Timmy shrugged, and Armie sighed.

“I should have fought harder,” he said softly. “Should have...did you know I escaped once?”

“You what?” Timmy twisted around to peer at Armie, and saw the wry smile. “From...training?”

“Yeah.” Armie sounded proud. “Only, I guess I didn’t _actually_ escape, you know, because they caught me. Took them half a day, though. I must have made it twenty miles.”

Timmy was still adjusting to the idea that Armie had tried to _escape_ from the Helper Center. Had walked — or ran — twenty _miles_ in order to get away. He shuddered, wondering what could have made him want to try that.

Armie must have felt him shaking, because he pulled Timmy’s hair to one side and kissed his neck.

“Was it really bad?” Timmy asked, when he couldn’t stand the silence any longer. “Was it...what was it like?”

He felt Armie tense behind him, and rested his palms on Armie’s thighs, rubbing up and down slowly.

“It wasn’t...I’d rather not get into it,” Armie said. He cleared his throat. “It probably wasn’t as bad as you’re thinking. Just a lot of repetition and correction.”

“Where would you have gone if you had actually escaped?” Timmy asked, squeezing Armie’s knees and trying very hard not to think about what _correction_ meant. Armie placed his hands on top of Timmy’s, and Timmy marveled at how Armie’s larger hands completely covered his own slender ones.

“To you,” said Armie, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. “I was trying to get home to you.”

Timmy closed his eyes. “It didn’t occur to you to actually escape?” he asked. “Get away from it all? For good?”

He felt Armie shrug. “Not really,” he said. “I was mainly concerned with getting to you. That’s all I cared about. And...I figured that if I could make it, we might have some time before they tracked me down, be able to figure something out, because...what kind of a slave escapes to go _back_ to their owner.” He laughed softly.

Timmy froze, and his heart legitimately stopped for the second time in less than twenty-four hours.

Armie had referred to himself as a _slave_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know that's a shitty place to leave things, but it's something that does need to be dealt with, and Timmy has been blindly ignoring some truths for far too long.
> 
> The good news is that now the next part is about 1/3 written already. The bad news it hat I'm swamped the next few days. But I'll do my best not to leave you on this note for too long.
> 
> @onlyastoryteller on Tumbler if you need to shriek at me. I don't mind.


	14. The Lies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Timmy discovers the depths of the deception surrounding Helpers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _falls to the ground in exhaustion_
> 
> This chapter is a beast. I have no idea whether it makes any sense, but I've been fighting with it long enough, so I'm sending it on to you with my fingers crossed that it's sea-worthy.
> 
> Forgive the rambling, the length, the dramatics.
> 
> And 100% fiction, of course.

__

_[Art by Chalamazed](https://twitter.com/chalamazed/status/1108536473559728128) _

* * *

 

_Slave. Slave. Slave._

The word beat repeatedly in Timmy’s head, in time with his heart, which must not have stopped after all.

Armie wasn’t a _slave_. He was a Helper. Helpers were different, born to serve. It was...the way they were. And Armie certainly didn’t _have_ to take orders, now that he was himself again, and could think for himself and make decisions.

It wasn’t slavery. It wasn’t.

_Slave. Slave. Slave._

Timmy thought about when Armie had returned from training, how he had recited the _Helper’s Purpose_ and all of the other rules he had learned. How he was focused on providing “aid and comfort” to Timmy. How he wasn’t allowed to deny a request. How he seemed to lose the ability to have his own desires and wants, or at least the ability to express them.

That was...what happened. To all Helpers. Except maybe it wasn’t, because now Armie was _Armie_ again. He seemed fine. Himself. Able to feel emotions and want things and make decisions for himself and not just in Timmy’s interest. Why? Was Armie different somehow than other Helpers?

_Slave. Slave. Slave._

Armie was still talking about his near-escape. “I wondered if maybe I’ve got some kind of a...tracking chip. Geo-location. Because I’m not sure how else they found me. I was careful.”

A tracking chip. Armie was thinking that he had a chip inside him so he could be located.

Timmy _owned_ him. Timmy’s father had purchased Armie and given him to Timmy. They had papers to prove it. He was marked so that he could be identified as belonging to Timmy. He couldn’t just leave, because then he would be a fugitive Helper. Helpers weren’t allowed to just exist on their own in society. Owners were allowed to give them orders, tell them where to go and when, keep them from having their own lives.

So if Armie wasn’t a slave...then what was he? Timmy’s heart sped up, and he started to have trouble drawing a clean breath. It was like his heart, which had been so full and whole again since last night, had shattered anew, all jagged edges shredding at his chest from inside.

_Slaveslaveslaveslaveslave_

“Hey,” said Armie, patting Timmy’s hands. “What are you thinking? You’re all tensed up.” he slid his hands up Timmy’s arms to his shoulders, pushed him forward slightly, and started to massage.

What could he say? Armie had moved past his comment as if it was the most natural, casual thing. As if he were noting the color of the sky, or commenting on the strength of the coffee. No big deal, just a word, as if it wasn’t threatening to send everything crashing down around them.

“I was wondering…” Timmy searched for a question, trying not to be distracted or soothed by the feeling of Armie’s warm hands kneading into his muscles. Which was difficult, because...it was Armie. The more Armie touched him, the less razor sharp the edges of his heart felt, the more it seemed like the pieces were trying to fit back together again.

A question. What could he ask? He had a million, but since all he could think was _slaveslaveslave_ and didn’t know how to broach the most important question — _do you feel like a slave? —_ he settled on an easier one, one that he had been wondering about since last night.

“How are you okay again? What was the trigger? I mean...for so long you were like...not really here. Didn’t remember our childhood. And now you seem fine. Lately you’ve been better, but not...you. Even yesterday. Was it that we were spending more time together? Was it that I started…” Timmy trailed off.

This wasn’t an easier question, he realized, cracking even more inside. This was another minefield. _Fuck_ , he wished he could backpedal. Because if it was just that Timmy was finally paying attention to Armie, treating him better, letting him _in_...then it was _Timmy’s_ fault it had taken so long. If he had been able to see past his hurt back when they were younger — or really at any point before now — he could have brought Armie back sooner.

Armie’s hands stilled. “It wasn’t _just_ that,” he said.

_Oh, thank god._ Timmy twisted around. “What was it, then?”

Armie licked his lips, and gazed at Timmy searchingly. Finally, he smiled, but the smile didn’t reach his eyes. He leaned forward and kissed Timmy gently.

“I have to show you something,” he said. “But you have to promise not to freak out. Okay? Because it’s fine. I’m _fine_.”

“I promise,” he said, hating how shaky his voice sounded. How was it possible for him to feel even more dread than moments ago?

Armie watched him for another moment, as if looking for confirmation, and then nodded.

“Stay here,” he said. He maneuvered himself out from behind Timmy, then strode out of the room. Timmy watched him go, his stomach flipping over and over again the longer he was alone.

Finally, Armie reappeared. He was carrying a small box in his hands — the shoebox Timmy had seen under his sink in his bathroom that day that he had gone snooping. He had assumed that had been where Armie had been keeping all of his high school things, but...maybe not.

“What’s that?” he asked.

Armie returned to the sofa and sat beside TImmy. “I’m sort of surprised you don’t know,” he said. “But I think...it’s a little fuzzy, but they may have told me to keep this from you. I remember thinking I had to be very careful about it. Which would make sense, based on how hard it was for them to…” He held out the box. “Here. Just...look.”

Timmy took the box from Armie and stared at it. It was dark green, and was not a shoebox after all, unless shoeboxes were made from leather and had small metal fasteners. It was also a bit flatter than a shoebox, and wider, and had a small lock on the front.

He glanced at Armie, and Armie held out a small silver key. Timmy took it from him and inserted it into the lock, which took several tries because now his hands were shaking. He twisted the key and felt the small _click_ as the lock gave way.

He gently lifted the flap and then pulled up the lid.

What he saw inside had him wrinkling his brow in confusion. There were row upon row of small syringes. A few were empty, but most were filled with a milky substance.

He looked up at Armie. “What the fuck is this?”

Armie took a breath. “It’s the drugs they use to control Helpers,” he said. “We’re supposed to inject ourselves once a day. I get a new shipment each month.”

Timmy’s mouth dropped open, and he stared at Armie. He could hardly believe what he had heard. Had Armie actually said he _injected_ himself with something every day? Something that someone used to... _control_ Helpers?

“What do you mean...control?” Timmy asked. His voice trembled, and he rested a hand against his throat, trying to steady it. “What do you mean, it’s what they use to control Helpers? Why do you need to be controlled?”

Armie raised an eyebrow. “So that we don’t revolt, I guess,” he said.

_Slaveslaveslaveslave_

“But...what does it _do_?” Timmy asked. He looked down at the syringes again, trying to imagine Armie sticking these needles into...his arm? His leg?

“It kind of...dulls everything,” said Armie. “It’s what made me feel like I couldn’t access myself. Like I was buried under miles of sand. Makes you responsive to commands, and dulls every desire and free will you might have. It’s why we seem like we can’t...feel much. Because while we’re on that stuff, we can’t. It’s sort of a numbing agent and a hypnotic agent all in one.”

“But you…” Timmy’s eyes cast around wildly, looking for something to look at that wasn’t the syringes, wasn’t _Armie_. He landed on the windows, and the city beyond. The sun was shining on the city, and below, people were going about their business. Shopping, going on dates, playing in the parks...owning Helpers.

“Helpers lose their ability to feel strong emotions,” he said, after a moment of watching clouds drift by. “It happens usually at puberty, sometimes later. And once you lose that, you don’t have...you can’t...you need…us. Regular people.” He hoped that by saying it out loud, somehow Armie would confirm it, and this would all go back to normal. He could stop himself from cracking into smaller and smaller pieces.

When the only response was gaping silence, Timmy ventured a look at Armie. Armie’s mouth was hanging open, his blue eyes wide.

“ _That’s_ what they tell you?” he asked, after opening and and closing his mouth a few times. “That’s what they _fucking tell you_?”

“I...yeah,” said Timmy. “It’s...common knowledge. About Helpers and the way they’re born and develop.”

“Holy fuck,” said Armie. “Well, that explains a lot. Here you were, thinking that I had gone fucking brain-dead or something, and that it was just the natural order of things. No wonder you became an alcoholic at age twenty-one.”

Timmy flushed. “I thought you didn’t remember—”

“I remember enough,” Armie snapped. He pushed to his feet and began to pace the living room. Timmy watched him, the information looping in his brain.

_Slaverevoltdrugscontrol_

He suddenly had a thought. “Wait...hang on a second. I may not have known about this —” and how the _fuck_ had he not known about this, not known that Armie was giving himself injections of some kind of mind control drug for nine years under his nose? Because he had deliberately ignored Armie — _crack_ — that was why, “— but some people must know that their Helpers are fucking injecting themselves.”

Armie stopped pacing. “Are you asking me if I’m sure about this?” he asked. “If I’m telling you the truth?”

“No.” Timmy shook his head. “I believe you. You don’t lie to me.” It was true, he knew. Even without Helper commands, Armie wouldn’t lie to him, not about something like this. “I just mean...what does everyone else think about these injections? Isn’t anyone suspicious?”

“Well, I’m not supposed to know what they really do. No one is. We’re told they’re special vitamins,” Armie said, his face impassive. “Vitamins to keep the Helpers in top health so they can perform their jobs. I imagine that’s what the Masters are told, too. I knew it wasn’t vitamins, because...I knew. I had it figured out. Not that it mattered, in the end. Once I was under...there was nothing I could do.”

“Jesus,” muttered Timmy. “So...wait. You were on this, and you were commanded to keep taking it, and to not tell me about it, and were told they were just vitamins. That still doesn’t explain how you...how you were able to—”

“I stopped taking it,” said Armie. “A couple of months ago, I think, based on what’s in that box and the other one under the sink in my bathroom.”

“But _why_?”

Armie smiled then, and that one single expression was enough to repair one tiny crack. It was a warm smile, one that softened his eyes. “I missed a dose,” he said. “That night you asked me to stay with you, in your bed. I did, and so...I missed one. In the morning, I was...clearer. Then I missed a second, and I was clear enough to realize that missing the doses was helping. Clear enough to stop taking it.”

“That was a while ago,” said Timmy. “You’ve seemed better recently, that’s true, but it was still...that was a while ago.”

Armie shrugged. “It took awhile for it to exit my system, I guess. And it came and went in waves. Sometimes I felt closer to the surface, closer to taking control again, and then I’d be back under another wave. But each time I came up, I was even closer. Until last night, I finally...it was like I snapped back into myself and everything was in full color. _You_ were in full color.”

“That’s so long,” Timmy whispered. “It must be strong.” He looked down at the syringes and traced one with his finger, tapped it, making the liquid inside jiggle.

“Yeah well,” Armie laughed, but it wasn’t a happy sound. “I was under a particularly strong dosage,” he said. “A high concentration, they called it.”

“Why?” asked Timmy.

Armie tilted his head to the side and smiled gently. “Because the regular ones didn’t seem to do the trick. Nothing regular seemed to do the trick with me. Like I said, a lot of it is kind of muddled now, but I remember feeling things slipping away. I remember being so _sure_ that if I held on tight enough, I’d be able to get back to you. I was...wrong.” He shook his head. “I was wrong, they just kept giving me a higher dose until it finally worked the way it was supposed to, and I stopped...saying your name.”

_Oh, god._ Timmy set the box of syringes on the coffee table and let his head drop into his hands as he thought about Armie, in the Helper Center, trying to fight against the effects of a drug that was slowly but surely taking away his humanity. His self. His personhood. _Fuck, fuck, fuck._ His heart was shattering into finer and finer pieces now, until it felt like his chest was filling up with sand and he couldn’t breathe.

Armie wasn’t any different from him. Helpers weren’t any different from anyone else. They were just people. Armie was just a person, a person who had been —

The sofa cushions dipped, and Timmy felt Armie’s arms come around him.

“Hey,” he said. “Breathe. It’s okay. I told you, I’m fine now. I’m fine.”

“How?” Timmy lifted his head and turned to search Armie’s face, which showed only concern. Concern for _Timmy_ , and not for himself. Timmy was shocked he could talk through the sand filling up his chest, but he kept going. “How are you fine? You...they made you stop being _you_. And you knew it was happening. That must have been…” His words were cut off as a sob bubbled up, and he let Armie pull him close, let Armie gently guide his head onto Armie’s shoulder, let Armie whisper to him gently, let Armie soothe him..

For a minute. And then he pushed Armie off, stood up, and backed away. “Don’t.”

Armie blinked at him in surprise. “Timmy…”

“No,” said Timmy. “Don’t...don’t comfort me. Don’t say you’re fine. You’re _not_ fine. None of this is fine. It’s never been fine, only I didn’t...I was too stupid to do anything about it or ask the right questions or be suspicious of the easy answers.”

Armie stood, shaking his head. “You didn’t know,” he said.

“I should have. I should have known. I should have...I don’t know, I should have _something_. But I was too happy to have you, and know you were... _mine_ —” Timmy nearly choked on the word “— and I _wanted_ you, so I just accepted it. I just let it happen. I... _Armie…”_

His voice cut off with a wheeze as his lungs finally filled up completely with the wreckage of his former heart.

“Timmy.” Armie took a step forward. “Stop. Please, you have to calm down and breathe. I told you—”

“ _No,_ ” Timmy was shouting now, holding both hands in front of him. “Armie, you said it yourself. You’re not a Helper. That’s a lie. You’re a _slave_. And it’s my fault. It’s my fault that you can’t live your own life, couldn’t... _do_ things that you want to do. My _fault._ ”

“It’s not your fault—” Armie shook his head.

“It _is_. God, you must hate me. I stole everything from you. Things I can never give back.”

Armie continued to shake his head, faster now. “No,” he said. “No, that’s not true. You didn’t. And I don’t hate you, I swear—”

“You’re a person,” Timmy said, his voice breaking, the sobs coming faster now. “You’re a person, you’re an amazing person, and I treated you like...like…”

Armie lunged forward, faster than Timmy could back away, and grabbed his shoulders, shaking him slightly. When he spoke, he voice was low, urgent.

“You treated me like your brother. Your best friend. Always like a person. Always. Like the person you fucking loved. That’s how you treated me. That’s what you should remember. It’s what I remember.”

He hauled Timmy against him and held him tight, so that no matter how much Timmy struggled, he couldn’t break free. Armie continued to speak.

“Listen to me. Nothing is your fault. You didn’t create this system. You didn’t choose to be a part of it. It was thrust upon you. All you did was love me. Right? You loved me?”

Timmy was nodding now, his cheek rubbing against Armie’s shoulder. He stopped struggling. Being held by Armie made his lungs seem to work properly again.

“I still do,” he said, his voice muffled.

“Good,” said Armie. “Then...come sit with me. I need you to...I need to be touching you right now. We can still talk about this, but don’t pull away, okay? I... _fuck._ I just got you back, Timmy. Don’t push me away again. Please.”

_Don’t push me away again._ Armie’s words registered, and Timmy realized that he had been wrong. His heart hadn’t completely shattered. There was still a part of it that could break.

Armie was right. Whatever had happened, whatever they still needed to deal with...he wasn’t going to turn away just because it was difficult. He had made that mistake once already. Never again.

He leaned back and took Armie’s face in his hands, brought their foreheads together. At the long familiar gesture, a comfort whether given or received, he felt a few pieces of himself begin to take shape and fit their edges together once more.

“Never,” he said. “I promise. Let’s…” He took a deep, cleansing breath. He eyed the box of syringes, the sunlit city. “Let’s sit. But not here. Can we go in the den?”

Armie nodded, and, taking Timmy’s hand, led the way down the hall.

A few minutes later, they were settled on the sofa in the den, Timmy’s back against the armrest and his legs thrown across Armie’s lap. Armie’s hands rested gently on Timmy’s knees, every once in a while stroking down his shins and back up again. With every touch, Timmy felt a bit more whole.

He was calmer now. More ready to deal with the things that he had done — or not done. More able to give Armie the comfort he needed, and the assurance that he wasn’t going to turn away.

“I need you to know that I don’t think of you like...like I own you,” Timmy said quietly. “I don’t think I ever really have. I never wanted to control you. I just wanted to be with you. Which is I think why it was so hard for me to deal with the fact that you had become so...incapable of choosing for yourself.”

Armie let his chin fall against his chest. “I really tried,” he said. “I’m sorry you had to...I tried not to get like that.”

“I know,” Timmy said, leaning forward and grabbing Armie’s hands. “Don’t be sorry. Fuck, nothing is your fault. You’re completely blameless. Me, on the other hand—“

“You didn’t know,” said Armie.

“I should have.”

“How?” Armie shook his head. “You were a kid. You were taught something, and you trusted the people who taught it to you. That’s not...that’s understandable.”

“But it didn’t even occur to me to ask questions. It didn’t occur to me it wasn’t right.” Timmy blew out a breath. “I’m not an idiot, I don’t think. Not usually. I should have asked questions. Looked deeper.”

“I don’t think it would have done any good,” said Armie. “This is...it goes deeper than it would have been possible for you to look. It would have to, to stay in place so long. Besides, you thought Helpers weren’t the same as you. Right? Well...I bought that line too. Up until training and I started to wonder why we had to be _trained_ to obey commands and push aside our own desires...if this was what we were, why was training so…” He shook his head. “But until then? I believed it.”

“You did?” Timmy asked. “You didn’t always know something was off?”

“No.”  Armie picked up one of Timmy’s feet and started to knead his arches, the way he used to do after a long run. “You tell a kid what they are and repeat it often enough, the kid’s going to believe you.”

“Now that you know, though, doesn’t it make you...I don’t know, angry? Doesn’t it make you hate—“

“Sure, it makes me angry,” said Armie. “But not...not at you. Or your parents. At the people who set things up and keep it running, whoever they are.”

They were quiet for a while. Timmy thought about what Armie had said. He believed that Armie wasn’t angry with him and didn’t hold anything against him, but that didn’t resolve things. Not in the least.

Armie squeezed Timmy’s big toe between his thumb and forefinger, then lightly stroked around his ankle. Despite everything, Timmy felt himself relaxing. He threaded a hand through Armie’s hair at his temple and ran a finger along the shell of his ear. Armie shivered.

“Keep doing that,” he whispered.

“Doing what?” asked Timmy, his voice equally hushed. “Doing this?”

He trailed his fingers from Armie’s ear down the side of his neck, where he began to toy with the delicate skin at the base of Armie’s throat. Armie let his head fall back against the sofa.

“Yes,” he murmured. “That. Anything.”

Guilt fleetingly warred with the desire in Timmy’s chest, but he tried to send it away. There would be time to feel guilty about the part he had played, about the way the structures he had benefited from had cut off and buried the lives of others. Right now, Armie needed to know he was loved, and Timmy needed to love him.

There was so much to unpack, and address, it was overwhelming. Armie had just become Armie again. He had had him in his glorious back-to-normal state for less than twenty-four hours. He wanted to be able to experience that for at least a short while before he inevitably lost it again. But he had to say one more thing before he could even begin to put the blackness aside — temporarily —and refocus on the sheer _joy_ he had been feeling earlier.

He licked his lips. “I want you to know,” he said, “that you don't have to stay. With me, I mean. If you want to go, and have your own life, I won’t stop you. I won’t report you or go looking for you. I’d even...I’ll help cover for you. If you wanted.”

Armie put Timmy’s foot down carefully and turn to face Timmy, his blue eyes boring straight into Timmy’s still healing heart.

“Do you want me to go?” he asked. “Would that be easier for you, if I wasn’t here? I know before...it must have been painful. And now, I can tell you’re upset by what I showed you. I know I asked you not to push me away, but if you want me to go, I’ll—“

“No. Armie, _no._ ” Timmy reached out and grabbed onto Armie, pulling himself forward until he was straddling Armie’s lap, his arms wrapped around Armie’s neck. “Don’t go Helper on me and put all your focus on what I want. I _don’t_ want you to go. I swear. I’m saying that if you want to leave and try to make your own life, without being tied to me like you are, I want you to have that.”

Armie smiled. He traced a finger along Timmy’s brow. “I want to be here. With you,” he said.

“Are you sure? I need to know that you understand, you can have whatever you want.” Timmy looked hard at Armie, trying to detect...what, he wasn’t sure. Some kind of uncertainty, or remnants of Helper Armie who didn’t recognize that he even had desires.

“Timmy. I want to be here. I’m happy with you. I told you. I—“

“I know,” Timmy said. “But I can’t help but think that you...you’re only happy because you sort of had to be, you know? Like, if you didn’t choose to be happy, you’d be miserable.”

Armie frowned. “You think I have Stockholm Syndrome,” he said. “You don’t believe that what I feel for you is...real?”

Timmy swallowed. “I want to,” he whispered. “I mean, I _do._ But it doesn’t change the fact that I’m responsible for you not ever having your own life. Like...you never had any other options. If you wanted love, it sort of had to be me. And so I guess I just—”

“You don't get it,” Armie shook his head. He laughed softly, looking off to the side, as if he was searching for something.

“When we were growing up, and I started to have these strong feelings for you, I thought there was something _wrong_ with me. For the longest time. Helpers weren’t supposed to fall in love with their Masters, that’s...fucked up. It was a recipe for disaster. I assumed I would just...suffer with those feelings forever, and I dreaded the time when I would have to watch you with someone else, getting married, having children. I wanted to be that person and I hated myself for it, but I comforted myself that at least I could be around you.”

He placed a palm on Timmy’s cheek and cupped it. “And then you kissed me. In your bedroom, the day I left, and suddenly...I started to think maybe I wasn’t crazy. Or maybe if I was, at least I wasn’t alone in it, because you wanted me too.”

The doubt that had been festering inside Timmy, the doubt that maybe none of this was real, started to dissolve. Hearing Armie talk...he didn’t sound like he had been forced into anything. He sounded so...sure.

“I thought about that all the time after I left,” Armie continued. “That you wanted me like I wanted you. That you _loved_ me the way I loved you. I was so sure of it, just from that one moment. And I realized...that first day we met, when they dropped me off, and your dad took me by the hand and led me into the dining room to meet you? I knew even then. Immediately, I _knew._ ”

“Knew what?” Timmy’s voice wobbled.

“That I was _for_ you. Not...not in the sense that I was actually for you, as a gift, but that I was made for you. You were...it was like you were the brightest, warmest light I had ever seen. I wanted to be near you, and keep your light shining forever. That feeling just...intensified as we grew up. I never felt like I was obligated to you, but I always felt like I was lucky to be able to be a part of your life. I think...we’ll never be sure, but I think that even if I had met you in a different time and place — in school, at work, whatever — it would have been the same. So despite everything else, despite the things that are hard to think about, despite the anger I feel at this fucked up system...it gave me an entire life with you, and I can’t be anything but happy about _that_. Now...there’s nothing I can do about our past. But I can be thankful for you, and focus on our present. Our future.”

Timmy stared, as his heart began to slowly repair itself, bit by bit, at Armie’s words. What Armie had just described wasn’t all that different from the way he had always felt, that he was the luckiest fucking person to have gotten to spend his life with Armie. He blinked rapidly and cleared his throat.

“It’s the same for me, you know,” he whispered. “I know that we were cast in these roles, I was told I was one thing and you were another. But to me...I was the lucky one. I got to have you in my life, the smartest, kindest, best person I could ever hope to meet. So...I think one of the things I feel most guilty about is that while I am truly sorry that you didn’t get your own life, I’m still so fucking selfishly grateful I got to have you. You made my life amazing, Armie. By being there.”

Suddenly, Armie was kissing him, an urgent, forceful kiss that almost _hurt_. Timmy clutched at Armie, hanging on for dear life as he yielded to the assault. Armie was relentless, barely letting them take a breath between rounds as he licked into Timmy’s mouth and bit at his tongue.

When he finally pulled back, they were both gasping.

“I know we’re not done talking,” Armie said. “I know there are things you’re going to want to ask me, and I know there are still things that are fucked up. But can we just pretend they aren’t for a while? Can we pretend you believe that what I feel about you is real, and that we’re just...normal?”

Timmy nodded. “Yeah,” he said.

“I’m going to take what I want right now. Okay?” Armie grabbed Timmy’s hips and moved, and suddenly Timmy was on his back on the sofa, Armie hovering over him.

“”Yeah,” Timmy said, again. “Okay.”

At some point, they made their way into the bedroom. Timmy knew that because when he opened his eyes a while later, his brain pleasure-fogged and drowsy, he was lying in bed, draped across Armie’s naked torso. Armie was snoring, his mouth slightly open, and Timmy smiled against his shoulder.

They were going to make it work. He would always wonder a little whether Armie would have truly fallen in love with him under normal circumstances, but Armie was right. What had happened had happened. It didn’t do any good to dwell on the past. Instead, they had to figure out how they were going to move forward, especially since they both wanted to hang onto the one good thing that had come out of their arrangement — each other.

* * *

They agreed to put a hold on serious conversations for a few days, and focus on getting to know each other again. After all, as Timmy pointed out, it had been ten years, and they had both changed.

So they talked about things that didn’t involve Helpers and slaves and training and injections. They discussed movies, and Armie started making a list of all the things he needed to catch up on while Timmy was at work. They debated politics, and Armie began to read news archives and shake his head at what he called the “obtuseness of power.”

Timmy caught Armie up on the rest of his life. There wasn’t much, besides work, but Armie seemed interested. Timmy was still having problems with the _Childress Group_ , and to his surprise, Armie remembered most of the details about that from before.

“So,” said Timmy, over spaghetti on Monday. “my day was basically useless.”

Timmy had insisted on taking turns cooking, despite Armie’s very logical point that he didn’t have a job to go to and enjoyed cooking. Spaghetti was Timmy’s first attempt at making something by himself, and Armie had sat at the kitchen island, watching him with an amused smile but not interfering. He thought he had done a semi-decent job. He didn’t understand how some of it was mushy as paste and some was crunchy, but...the sauce had heated up just fine.

“What happened?” asked Armie.

“Well, I had a bunch of meetings scheduled, and then it all got blown up because of that client I told you about — _Childress_ , I don’t know if you remember — who decided on a new investment strategy and wanted me to execute it immediately. I swear, they’re capable of losing money all on their own. Why bother paying us to do it for them?”

He rolled his eyes, and gestured with his fork.

“Oh, and the worst part is that half of the companies they want to invest in now are the same fucking ones where they lost a ton a few months ago.”

Armie was frowning, and had stopped eating.

“I’m sorry,” said Timmy. “I know the spaghetti sucks. I can...make something else if you want.”

“No, it’s okay,” said Armie. “It’s fine. I was just thinking. This is the file I brought you at work that day?”

“Yes,” said Timmy, surprised. “I can’t believe you remembered who they were.” He watched Armie a moment. “Is there something you wanted to...say about it?”

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have...I was curious about your work. But I shouldn’t have looked.” Armie poked at his pasta.

“You looked at the file? I mean...I don’t care if you did. Did you see something?” Timmy wondered what Armie could possibly have seen that he would have understood at that point.

“I’m not...sure,” said Armie. “You said...at one point you said they want to lose money. Right?”

“I was joking,” said Timmy. “No one actually wants to lose money.”

“Right. But I was thinking...I mean, maybe sometimes people want to lose rather than win. Usually not money, maybe, but it can be a strategy to lose. What if there is some benefit to them losing money?”

Timmy couldn’t think what, but maybe Armie was right, maybe _he_ had been right, and _Childress Group_ was trying to lose money. It would certainly explain their wacky investment plans. And if the firm knew but Timmy didn’t, that would also explain why his bosses seemed unconcerned about the situation.  

But why?

He pushed it aside. He’d look into it later. In the meantime…

“This is gross,” said Timmy. “I don’t know what I did wrong, but can I pour you a bowl of cereal?”

Armie laughed. “Thank god,” he said. “I mean, I would have choked it down, but...I’ll take the Lucky Charms.”

Timmy took care of dumping the spaghetti and then got out the bowls and spoons and cereal and milk. He picked up the milk and began to tip it over the bowl when Armie held up a hand.

“Wait. What are you doing?” he asked, a horrified look on his face.

“I’m...pouring the milk,” said Timmy.

“Before you put in the cereal?” asked Armie.

“What’s the difference?”

Armie rolled his eyes. “I think, instead of taking turns, we should just do things together for a while. Until you get the hang of it.”

Timmy blushed. “I...okay,” he said. “Together is okay.”

Armie smiled. “Yeah. It’s okay.”

* * *

On Tuesday, they began to tackle the list of movies Timmy thought Armie had missed while he wasn’t able to enjoy them. They were snuggled on the sofa in the den, Timmy’s head in Armie’s lap, watching the credits roll on the second movie of the evening, when Armie sighed.

“What’s the matter?” asked Timmy.

“Nothing’s the matter,” said Armie.

Timmy shifted onto his back so he could look up at Armie. “Come on. You look...thoughtful. Tell me what you’re thinking.”

Armie stroked Timmy’s hair, brushing it back from his forehead, and was quiet for a few minutes. Just when Timmy thought he wasn’t going to answer, he spoke.

“I was just thinking about what you said the other night, when we were at dinner. On my birthday.”

Timmy thought over that evening. They had talked about a lot. It had been a better conversation than they had ever had before.

“Can you narrow it down?” Timmy asked. What Armie said next made his pulse jump.

“You told the waiter that I...was your boyfriend.” Armie swallowed visibly, and then looked down at Timmy and smiled. “And I was just thinking that if that were possible it would be...nice.”

Timmy sat up, shifted around so he could face Armie. “Is that what you are?” he asked. “I mean...honestly, at the time I just said that because the waiter saw us together and it was easier than answering questions. But I don’t really think of you like—”

Armie blushed. “It’s okay,” he said. “I mean...it would be ridiculous. For you to choose to—”

Timmy took Armie’s chin between his thumb and forefinger and kissed him. When he pulled back, Armie’s eyes were soft around the edges, where the deeper blue fractured into a more silvery color.

“It’s not,” said Timmy. “What I was going to say is that I don’t really think of you as my boyfriend because...it isn’t really what you are. What you are doesn’t really have a name.”

Armie nodded. “I know I don’t really have a right to you,” he said.

“Of course you do. I mean...we can’t really _be_ together, officially. Not with the way things are set up.” Timmy had thought about this, repeatedly, during the last couple of months. How to go about having a relationship with his Helper, when such a thing was forbidden. “But between us, we can.”

“It would be a kind of...half life for you, though.”  Armie said. “I was thinking about it, and I know what I said about dreading seeing you with someone else, but I want you to be able to have a real relationship. With someone you can marry, have children. I don’t want to be the reason you don’t get any of that.”

Timmy smiled. “You’re incredible,” he said. “To even say that. But I don’t need what you’re talking about. I don’t,” he insisted, when Armie looked like he was about to protest. “Seriously. I decided a long time ago that love wasn’t in the cards for me, after you. I dated as a distraction, never because I was looking for anything permanent.”

Armie looked pained. “Why?” he asked. “I know you said there hadn’t been anyone else serious, but—“

“Because I fell in love with you and never got my heart back,” said Timmy. “And I don’t want it back, especially now. Keep it. It’s yours.”

Armie closed his eyes. Timmy reached up and brushed away a teardrop as it slowly leaked from one corner.

“Besides,” he murmured, “even if we can’t...be official out there, we can still have those things you mentioned. If you want kids, I could adopt, or use a surrogate. We can have that. The world might not know, but we would. We’d make up our own rules since theirs are clearly stupid.”

When Armie opened his eyes, they were more like the sea than usual, liquid and shimmering.

* * *

On Wednesday morning, Armie woke him up an hour early.

“What’s going on?” Timmy asked, stumbling as Armie hauled him out of bed. “It’s still dark out. Why is it still dark out?”

“It’s been too long since I’ve kicked your scrawny ass in a race.” Armie said. “I want to go for a run.”

“A run?” Timmy blinked, trying to see Armie’s face in the shadows. “You want to go for a run? Now? Really?”

“I really do,” he said. “Come on. It’ll feel good to be active again. I want to run with you.”

Timmy shook the sleep away. “Then that’s what you’ll get,” he said. “Only prepare yourself to lose. I was on the all-state track team, you know.”

“That was a million years ago,” Armie said, throwing Timmy his running clothes. “And who do you think helped you get there?”

“You did,” said Timmy. He grinned. He knew what Armie was doing. He was searching for that sense of possibility they used to share, that excitement of discovering the world together. It was right to return to that. There were plenty of things wrong, but right now, in this moment, it felt right to go back. “Remind me how.”

Armie grinned back, and Timmy felt another piece of himself slide back into place and heal.

* * *

Thursday, Timmy arrived home from work to find a half dozen boxes on the coffee table in the living room. He deposited his things and went to investigate.

They were filled with books. Books on law, history, art, science...and a healthy dose of the latest popular fiction. He grinned.

Armie emerged from the kitchen. “Hey,” he said. “I thought I heard you come in.”

“What’s all this?” asked Timmy.

“Oh. I hope it’s okay that I ordered a few things.”

“Of course it’s okay,” said Timmy. “A _few_?”

Armie approached, a sheepish smile on his face. “I...found a bunch of things I was interested in reading,” he said. “And since I kind of have some time on my hands, I thought—”

Timmy cut him off with a kiss.

“I love it,” he said. “I love that you’re exploring things. You should. Get as many books as you want. Go where you want. There are a million art museums in this city, we should go to them. Go to lectures, if you want, I can get schedules from NYU and Columbia.”

Armie nodded. “I’d like that.”

A thought hit Timmy then, and his giddiness at Armie’s expression of interest slid away.

“I wish you...could go to college,” he said. “Have a career. You’re so smart, I wish—”

“It’s fine,” said Armie. “Honestly, it’s fine. Lots of people wish they didn’t have to work. I can just learn about things I want to learn about, spend time on things I enjoy. You’ll be jealous of me at some point, I bet.”

Timmy watched him, saw the honesty there, but also a touch of regret.

“We could go somewhere,” he said suddenly. “Somewhere that they don’t have Helpers. You could just be you.”

Armie shook his head firmly. “I told you, Timmy, I’m not leaving. I don’t want to leave.”

“I don’t mean...I mean we could go together,” he said, realizing that the idea had merit. “There are lots of places that don’t have Helpers. Lots of places in Europe and all over.”

“Timmy...I’m not allowed to—”

“I can take you out of the country. There’s a lot of paperwork, but I’m allowed. We could start traveling now, domestically, and then go to Europe a couple of times, come back. Then one time we...don’t.”

Armie frowned. “Timmy, that’s...they’d come looking for us.”

“Not if we did it right,” said Timmy. “My trust releases a new tier in two years. I could move that somewhere untraceable. I know how to do it. I could get us new identities. We could...I’m sure there are places that would remove your tattoo, your locator chip, if you really have one.” He pulled Armie closer to him. “So we disappear, and then we can actually live our life. Not just me, but you, too. We could get married.”

Armie was staring at him with an expression of something like wonder.

“You’d do that?” he asked. “For me? You’d leave everything behind, your career, your parents...everything?”

“There isn’t much I _wouldn’t_ do for you,” said Timmy. “I can’t think of anything, actually.”

Armie rested his forehead against Timmy’s. “Same,” he said. “But that would be...that’s drastic. I don’t think we need to go that far. I told you, I’m fine here. With you. And my new books. These will take me years to get through as it is.”

Timmy let it go. But he knew he’d bring it up again.

* * *

On Friday, Timmy was mangling an onion when he realized Armie was staring out the kitchen window, a distant and serious look on his face.

“Hey,” he said. “What are you thinking about?”

Armie blinked, and then turned to him and smiled. “Nothing,” he said. He noticed the onion and his eyes widened.  “Christ, you suck at that. And you’re going to slice off your fingertips.”

With a small laugh, he came around behind Timmy. He set his left hand on top of Timmy’s, curling Timmy’s fingers under and resting them on the onion. Then he took Timmy’s right hand, the one holding the knife, and gently guided him in neatly slicing the rest of the onion.

Timmy felt a calm settle over him, and he leaned back against Armie’s chest. Armie dropped a kiss on his head and sighed.

“Are you going to tell me what’s bothering you?” Timmy asked.

“It’s really not…” Armie let go of Timmy’s hands and wrapped his arms around Timmy’s waist. “I was out today, shopping, and I kept noticing other Helpers.”

“Oh?”

“They were...I guess I saw them when I was a kid but didn’t think much about it. I mean, we lived with Vanda. But today, all I could see was how numb they all were. How cut off from reality, operating on automatic stimulus/response. I can’t believe I was actually like that.”

Timmy thought about how to respond, and decided to be honest.

“You were worse,” he said. “Worse than most that I’ve seen. Able to do what you were asked to do, but...worse.”

Armie made a distressed sound in the back of his throat, and Timmy covered Armie’s hands with his own, trapping them against his stomach.

“Do you think there’s anyone else out there who knows the truth?” Armie asked. “Or is it just us?”

“I don’t know,” said Timmy. “It seems like...probability says we can’t be the only ones. There must be other Helpers who came off the drugs, or Masters who figured it out. It’s just weird that we don’t hear of them.”

They were quiet for a few minutes. Timmy wished he could see Armie’s face, but Armie was holding him tight, and he felt like he should stay put, be a stable element in what was probably a shaky moment.

“We don't hear of them because the government doesn’t want us to,” Armie said. “If people found out...it would bring the whole thing crashing down. I imagine that anytime there’s even a suggestion someone is close to the truth they’d swoop in and deal with it.”

He sounded so sure. Timmy remembered what he had said about training, the little bits Armie had revealed, and thought he understood Armie’s certainty.

“All the more reason to leave,” Timmy said. “Can you at least think about that option? Of us getting out? Disappearing?”

There was a long beat, and then, “Yes. I’ll think about it. But what if we didn’t leave? What if...what if we stayed and tried to do something about it?”

“Do something?” Timmy asked. “You mean, like...get the word out? Help Helpers escape or get off their drugs? Like that?”

“Maybe,” said Armie. “I just feel like I have this responsibility. Since I’m not...under anymore...it’s hard to see so many who are, and think about people who have no idea. It might be stupid.”

“I don’t think it’s stupid,” Timmy said. “I think it’s understandable that you’d feel that way. I kind of do, too. And it’s possible — likely, even — that there are other people out there, working against the Helper system. We’d just have to find them.”

Timmy decided to ask Armie another question, one that had occurred to him the night before, when Armie was reading aloud from Anna Karenina.

“Armie, do you remember your parents?”

“My...parents?” Armie sounded surprised, the word emerging slowly as if he were learning it for the first time. “No, I guess I don’t.”

“You must have them, though. I was thinking about it, how...if this whole system is a fraud, and there’s no such thing as a “Helper” outside the system, then...you came from somewhere. You all did. Where?”

Timmy felt Armie shrug. “The earliest memories I have are of being with a bunch of children and learning about our responsibilities as Helpers. And then being with you.”

“I wonder if we could find out.” Now Timmy did turn in Armie’s arms, lacing his fingers together at the back of Armie’s neck. “Would you want that? To find out?”

Armie frowned. “I don’t know. Maybe.”

“There might be information in your paperwork,” Timmy said. “My father still has all that. I could call him. Actually, I’ve been dodging Momma’s calls for a while, she’s been bugging me to come for dinner. We could go, and I could check out the paperwork. I should really have it myself, anyway.”

“Okay,” said Armie. “I’m guessing there’s nothing there, but it can’t hurt to look.”

_Good_ , Timmy thought. It was time he had a chat with his parents about his Helper anyway. He wondered how they would react to the word _slave._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're close to the finish line.
> 
> I'm onlyastoryteller on Tumblr.


	15. The Truth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A trip home yields information.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You may have noticed I added a chapter. That's because, as usual, I'm a lying liar who lies (or, alternatively, I realized that my chapter outline was too ambitious and it would serve the story better to split it into two).
> 
> This really is the final count, though. You'll get the final chapter and an epilogue with the next update.
> 
> 100% fiction, as always.

[Art by Chalamazed](https://twitter.com/chalamazed/status/1108536473559728128)

* * *

“Aren’t you going too fast?”

Timmy glanced over at Armie. He was crammed into the passenger seat of Timmy’s Porsche 911, left hand gripping the dashboard and the other planted firmly on the roof of the car. Timmy grinned.

“Nope,” he said.

“Seems a little fast,” Armie said. “And not very safe.”

Timmy reached across the center console and laid a hand on Armie’s knee, which was jammed up against the glove box. “It’s fine,” he said. “I’m not even really going over the speed limit right now. I can go a lot faster. Watch.”

He pressed his foot on the gas, switched into the passing lane, and increased their speed another ten miles an hour. Barely at all, in his opinion, and not close to _fast_ , but Armie moved his left hand from the dashboard to lay it firmly atop Timmy’s. He closed his eyes.

“Slow down,” he said. “Please.”

Timmy eased off the gas and slowed back to his original speed. “I’m a good driver,” he said. “The roads are clear, the visibility is good. You’re wearing a seatbelt. You have nothing to worry about.”

He realized that Armie hadn’t been in cars much since they were kids. He didn’t really know how often Armie needed to be in an automobile while he was in college, but since Armie had moved in with Timmy, Timmy had never taken him for a ride. It wasn’t necessary, since they lived in the city, and since the idea of being in an enclosed space with Armie would have been torture to him up until a couple of months ago.

Feeling bad that he had teased Armie, Timmy slid his hand from Armie’s knee to his thigh and patted it soothingly.

“Sorry,” he said. “I’ll slow down.”

“Maybe I should drive,” Armie muttered. “Might be safer.”

Timmy squinted at him. “ _Can_ you drive?” he asked.

Armie shrugged. “Technically I have a Helper’s license and did that course, but...I haven’t since then. So I’m not sure. But I learn fast.”

“Well...honestly, I’d let you try. But I don’t think you’ll fit in the driver’s seat very well.”

Armie looked over the tiny interior of the car and sighed. “That’s true.”

Timmy thought about it for a moment, and then grinned. “I’ll get you your own car,” he said, excitement building. “And I’ll teach you.”

Armie’s hand dropped from the roof. “My own car? What do I need that for? We live in the middle of Manhattan.”

“I have a car,” Timmy said with a shrug. “We actually have two parking spaces in the garage. I rent one out right now, but we could use that.” He squeezed Armie’s thigh. “Let me buy you a car.”

“Okay,” Armie smiled back. “What kind?”

Timmy shrugged. “What kind do you want?”

Armie was quiet for a minute. Timmy was noticing that he still did that, took his time to answer questions. Had he always? He tried to think back to when they were kids, and thought that yes, Armie had been the sort of person to take questions seriously even then.

Timmy felt a bloom of something warm in his chest as he saw another connection between the Armie he had fallen in love with long ago, the one he had fallen in love with over the past few months, and the one who was crammed into his little sportscar without complaint. They really all were the same person, and there was something about that that both excited and settled Timmy.

“Something like that, maybe,” said Armie, pointing out the front windshield.

Timmy scanned the cars around them. “ _That_?” he said, his eyes finding the forest green minivan they were about to pass. “You want a minivan?”

“What’s wrong with a minivan?” Armie asked.

Timmy sputtered. “They — they’re for boring people with a bunch of kids. That’s not…”

“I understand,” Armie said, but he sounded hurt. “That’s not us. Or are you calling me boring?”

“You’re not boring, Armie,” Timmy said with a giggle. “But right now, you belong in something...sexier.” He chewed on his bottom lip. “You don’t need speed, obviously. What about a Phantom? Rolls Royce?”

“Good name,” he said. “I don’t know much about cars, but I have heard of Rolls Royce. Isn’t that expensive, though?”

“It’s fine,” said Timmy. “I want you to have the best.” He gave Armie another assessing look. “Or something classic,” he said thoughtfully. “I can ask my dad if he has a line on anything. Maybe a Camaro. Or an Impala.”

“Do they come in green?”

Timmy glanced at Armie. “I don’t know. You want it in green?”

“Maybe.” Armie blushed and looked away.

“You know,” Timmy said after a moment, “I picked blue for mine because it reminded me of you.”

Armie turned back, his eyes warm and sparkling. “You did?”

Timmy nodded. “Okay, so we’ll get you something green.” He sighed. “And someday, I’ll get you your damned minivan.”

“Someday?”

“When we need it. To cart our kids around.”

Timmy turned his hand so that his palm was facing up, and Armie laced their fingers together. A contentment settled over Timmy, and he let it push aside the tension that he had been holding deep inside since the previous weekend, no matter how hard he tried to push it aside, and tell himself that everything would be fine.

Now, sitting in his stupid sportscar — that was clearly too small for Armie, which was something he’d have to do something about — he had a new confidence that, whatever happened, it would be okay. They would be okay.

They had to be.

After a few more miles had zipped by in silence, Armie cleared his throat.

“How much longer?” he asked.

Timmy glanced at the passing exit sign. “Another thirty-five minutes or so,” he said. “You need to stop? Stretch your legs?”

Armie grimaced slightly, and tried in vain to shift into a more comfortable position. “No, I can make it. I was just thinking that it’s been a while since I’ve seen your parents at all, let alone been to their house.”

It was true; he hadn’t brought Armie with him to his parents’ house since Armie moved in with him. “Momma did some landscaping, and they renovated the kitchen. And some of the bathrooms, I think. My old bedroom — and yours — are proper guest rooms now.”

“I’m looking forward to seeing them,” Armie said. “I’ve missed your parents. I mean...I know I’ve seen them when they’ve come into the city, but...that wasn’t really...”

“I understand,” Timmy said. “They’re going to be thrilled to see you. They were almost as devastated as I was when you — anyway, they’re going to be thrilled.”

Armie was quiet for a minute. “Do you think maybe I shouldn’t let on that I’m...better?”

“What?” Timmy glanced over. “Why?”

Armie squeezed Timmy’s hand. “Just because it would mean we’d have to find a way to explain _how_. What would we even say?”

Timmy thought about it. It was true that, despite him believing his parents would be thrilled to have Armie fully back, it would be a shock. And it would raise questions that Timmy wasn’t sure they should answer. He didn’t really think that his parents would take a hard stance on the issue, or suggest that Armie should be back on the injections, or report them in some way...but until he was positive, it was probably safer to keep it all to themselves.

“I guess you’re right,” Timmy said. “What would you — I mean, how would you act?”

“I don’t know. I guess I’ll just stay quiet, try to keep my expressions in check.” He brought Timmy’s hand to his mouth and placed a kiss on his knuckle. “I’ll have to call you ‘sir.’ I know you don’t like that.”

Timmy’s heart pounded once even hearing the word coming from Armie’s mouth, but he swallowed and nodded. “I understand,” he said. “I can handle it. Besides, if we’re going to keep up the charade in general you’ll have to call me...that...in public. I should get used to hearing it and knowing it doesn’t mean you’re not you.”

“Exactly,” said Armie. “And to make up for it I’ll call you ‘Timmy’ a hundred times tonight once we get home.”

They lapsed back into silence for a few more exits.

“I’m not going to treat you like I used to, though,” Timmy said suddenly. “I can’t. It wouldn’t feel right.”

Armie frowned. “If you’re too familiar, though, they’ll know something is up.”

“Maybe not,” said Timmy. “I mean, I’m not going to jump you in front of them, but I won’t ignore you or avoid looking at you. I _won’t_. I...can’t do that to you again, even if it’s pretend.”

“It’s okay,” said Armie. “You can. I’ll know it’s not real. Just like you know I’m just acting.”

“Not doing it,” said Timmy. “I can hold back, but that’s all. I’m not really worried. My dad tried to convince me years ago that you’d eventually make progress if I could just —”

He choked on the words.

“Pull over,” said Armie. “Take the next exit.”

“I’m fine,” Timmy managed, blinking rapidly to clear his vision. “It’s fine.”

“Timmy. Get off the highway. Now.”

Armie’s voice was more commanding than Timmy had ever heard it. He pulled his hand back, and flicked the lever for the turn signal, making his way into the right lane. In silence, he pulled the wheel to the right and veered onto the exit ramp, letting the car slow naturally, until he could pull off the access road and into a fast food parking lot.

When the car came to a stop and Timmy had shoved the gearshift into park, Armie unbuckled his seatbelt and turned to Timmy, taking his face in his hands.

“Listen to me,” Armie said. “For the fucking last time — although honestly, I’ll tell you this as often as you need it, so maybe not for the last time — you did what you had to do to survive. I’m not mad, or upset.”

“I know,” Timmy said. “I know. But I can’t help regret it. We lost so many days, Armie.”

“Sure,” he said. “But don’t criticize yourself for that. And I’d really rather not focus on what we _didn’t_ get. I’d rather focus on what we _do_ get.” He skimmed his thumbs across Timmy’s cheekbones and then leaned forward and placed a soft kiss on his lips.

Timmy hesitated a split second before giving in to the kiss, leaning in and increasing the pressure. Armie smiled against his mouth.

“That’s better,” Armie murmured, his lips moving against Timmy’s.

Timmy took advantage of Armie’s parted lips to slide his tongue forward, seeking entrance. Armie sighed and granted permission, licking his own way into Timmy’s mouth in return.

No matter how many times they did this, no matter where, no matter what brought it on...Timmy knew he would never get used to the fact that this was possible now. That he could finally take what he had been craving for half of his life, that it was willingly given.

After a few minutes, Armie pulled back. “Feeling better?” he asked, searching Timmy’s face for answers.

Timmy nodded. “Yeah. We should...probably get going. Or we’ll be late for dinner.”

Armie buckled his belt again, and they got back on the road. Within ten minutes, they were pulling in to the circular drive in front of Timmy’s parents’ house, and Armie was — painfully, it looked like — unfolding himself from the passenger seat.

At the front door, Timmy rang the bell. He always felt a little weird doing that, but he also felt weird just charging in without announcing his presence.

As they waited, he reached over and took Armie’s hand. Armie looked down at him in question.

“Just because I know I can’t once the door opens,” he explained.

Armie gave his hand one final squeeze, and as the locks clicked, he let go, letting his hands hang at his sides. Timmy tried not to notice how cold he suddenly felt.

Papa answered the door, his phone to his ear.

“Come in,” he whispered, beckoning them across the threshold and closing the door behind them. He wrapped an arm around Timmy and kissed his temple, and then clapped a hand on Armie’s bicep. He raised his voice and spoke into the phone. “Fred, could you hold for just a moment? Thanks.”

He tucked the phone against his chest and grinned at the boys.

“I’m so glad you could come,” he said. “Your mother has been whining for a while that it’s been too long since you visited. Hello, Armie. It’s good to see you here again.”

“Hello, sir. Thank you for inviting me,” said Armie, his voice blank. Timmy shivered. It had been one thing to talk about having to pretend. It was another thing entirely to see it in action.

“Where is Momma? If she’s been whining so much.” Timmy asked.

“She’s in the kitchen with Vanda, and I wouldn’t go in there if I were you. Apparently there was some issue with the stove or the oven or something and they had to change the meal plans. Listen, I have to finish up this call — it’ll only take a few minutes — and then I want to hear all about everything going on in your life in the _months_ since we’ve heard from you.”

Timmy cringed. Had it really been so long? “Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean for it to be so long. I got...caught up. In work.”

“Then I want to hear all about that over dinner. In the meantime, your mother put some things on the bed in your old room. She wants to know if you want to take any of it or if she should discard it. Go on up and take a look.”

He hurried off towards his study, and Timmy exchanged a look with Armie. Armie smiled at him and shrugged, as if to say _see, no big deal_. Timmy rolled his eyes.

“Come on,” he said. He led the way up the stairs and around the corner to his old bedroom. It always shocked him a little to see it converted into an adult guest room. Gone were the twin beds, the old desk where he had done his homework. In their place sat a queen bed with sedate nightstands, a small dresser. New paintings of scenes from France were on the wall, his old posters and the other odds and ends of his childhood stripped away.

On the bed was a pile of some of the those odds and ends. An old high school track jacket, a flute from his short-lived time in the middle school band, a stack of old textbooks, and an assortment of other things that all brought back dozens of memories.

He picked up the track jacket and shook it out. It was red and white, his high school colors, with his name and the number twelve emblazoned on the back. Curiously, he pulled it on.

It mostly still fit. His arms were a little longer, and his shoulders a little broader, but otherwise…

He looked up when he heard what sounded like an expression of distress from the doorway. There was Armie, standing at the threshold, looking at him.

“You can come in,” Timmy said.

“I know. I’m just…” Armie shook his head, smiled, and stepped into the room. He looked around. “It looks so different,” he said, his voice wistful.

“Yeah, I was just thinking the same thing,” Timmy said. “I guess you haven’t been back since Momma cleared the room out, redecorated.”

Armie was silent for a minute, and then gazed into the corner, where his old bed used to live, the one that wasn’t quite long enough to contain his miles of legs, even before he reached his full height.

“You know, when you moved me in here...that was pretty much the best day of my life. Despite having fallen out of the tree and being afraid that —” He stopped abruptly.

“Being afraid that what?” Timmy asked, fiddling with the sleeves of the jacket, tucking his hands into the pockets, wondering if he’d find an artifact from his senior year still inside, long forgotten.

Armie laughed softly. “It’s stupid.”

Timmy looked up, suddenly concerned at Armie’s tone. “Seriously,” he said. “Afraid that what?”

“I don’t know. Just that I wasn’t...if I was broken, why would you want me anymore?” He smiled. “I told you it was stupid. I know — knew, I think, even then — you wouldn’t just dump me like that.”

_Shit_. Timmy thought that he would stop being shocked at all the ways that Armie hadn’t known his own worth during their years together, but it seemed that he was going to forever wish he had done things to make it more clear how much Armie had meant to him. He tried to think of something to say now, and then Armie’s gaze sharpened.

“Did you wait?” he asked.

“Did I…” Timmy frowned. “What do you mean?”

“Did you wait. The day I came back. Like we promised. Did you wait for me…” Armie moved to the very spot that had witnessed their first kiss. “...here?”

Timmy lost his breath for a moment, remembering that day. Then he cleared his throat and managed a smile.

“Of course,” he said. “I mean, it didn’t really matter, because you — I mean, you couldn’t remember —”

Armie got a look on his face that Timmy couldn’t quite place, his eyes going several shades darker and his lips pressing into a thin line. He looked almost...angry. Then he grabbed Timmy by the shoulders and dragged him forward.

“Stay right here,” Armie muttered. Then he turned and strode purposefully out the door.

Timmy stood in place, frozen. Was Armie...was he going to...did he want to—

Armie charged back into the room, kicking the door closed behind him. Timmy’s heart sped up into a gallop as Armie crossed the space between them in two long strides — Timmy had always thought it would take three — and then he was holding Timmy, kissing him as if his life depended on it.

And maybe it did, because as their lips crushed together, as his hands clutched at Armie’s hair, yanking and tugging, as Armie’s fingers found their way under the track jacket to skim along Timmy’s back, Timmy felt like he was being reborn. Everything inside him that had died that day in May nine and a half years ago burst back into fiery existence. Old wounds were healed, broken parts fused together, as every cell in his body screamed in relief.

He had been waiting for this, still waiting after all this time, even long after telling himself he had given up.

Neither seemed to want to let go, but finally the need for oxygen won out over the need for each other. Armie pulled an inch away, and they sucked in air.

“Thank you,” Timmy said. “I...didn’t know I was still waiting for that.”

“Neither did I,” said Armie.

“What do you think would have happened?” Timmy asked, looping his arms around Armie’s neck and resting his hands in the soft hair at Armie’s nape. “After you walked through that door and kissed me like that. Would you have gotten embarrassed?”

“Embarrassed?” Armie smiled. “Why would I be embarrassed?”

“I had been sort of hoping I’d get to see you blush,” Timmy said. “You’re so cute when you blush, because it goes all the way down your neck.”

“Yeah?” Armie’s smile widened. “Honestly, I think the thing I missed the most about you was hearing you laugh. So I probably would have…”

His fingers danced around from Timmy’s back to his sides, and Timmy gasped. He tried to twist his torso out of reach, but Armie grabbed on tight. The next thing he knew, he was being lifted off the ground and tossed onto the bed, and Armie fell on top of him, tickling mercilessly.

He rolled this way and that, but he wasn’t really trying to get away. Instead, he gave in to the helpless sensation, laughing and shivering as Armie’s hands worked their magic. Finally, Armie stilled, flattening his palms against Timmy’s stomach and grinning down at him.

“That’s what I would have done,” he said.

“It’s what you _did_ do,” Timmy reminded him. “As soon as you fully woke up. Remember?”

Armie nodded. “You know, when I started tickling you, way back, it was because it was a way I was allowed to touch you. Even before I realized I was falling for you, and wished I could have a relationship with you that was more than what we were designated to be...I wanted to be close to you.”

Timmy sighed at the way Armie was sliding his hands up to his neck, his jaw.

“I let you do it for the same reason,” Timmy said.

Armie dipped his head and kissed Timmy’s neck. “And now I can do this any time I want,” he murmured. He licked his way up to Timmy’s ear and fastened his teeth around it.

Timmy let out a soft moan. “Maybe not any time,” he said, swallowing thickly. “You better stop. Or else we’re going to—”

“Timmy?” Momma’s voice called from downstairs.

Timmy pushed Armie off of him, and Armie laughed. “See?” he said. “They want us downstairs and now I’m all...I’m…”

“You’re all what?” Armie asked. With a devilish glint in his eye, he ran a hand over Timmy’s cock, which had risen to half mast, and Timmy gasped.

“Jesus, you fucking—”

“Timmy?” Momma’s voice was closer.

“Fuck,” Timmy muttered. He rolled off the bed and adjusted his pants. Armie was already standing, his back stiff and his hands clasped behind his back. When Timmy shot him a look, he licked his lips and smiled.

_Later_ , he mouthed.

Timmy rolled his eyes and went to open the door.

“We’re in here,” he said. “I was just looking at the stuff you left for me.”

Momma appeared in the doorway, and smiled when she saw he was wearing the track jacket.

“It still fits,” she said, running a hand down the arm. “Are you keeping it?”

“Yeah,” he said, nodding. After what had just happened, there was no way he was letting go of the jacket. “I want this. I’ll take the albums, too, but the rest of it you can toss.”

“It looks good on you still,” she said. “ _You_ look good. Healthy. Not so...tired.” She pulled him into a tight hug. “Don’t stay away so long. I’ve missed you.”

“I know,” he said. “I’ve missed you too. I’m sorry, work has been a pain recently, and…” He unconsciously glanced over his shoulder, stopping before he mentioned Armie as one of the reasons he hadn’t been calling or visiting.

Momma followed his gaze, and when she saw Armie, her smile broadened. “And Armie,” she said. “It’s so good to see you here. It’s been too long.” She crossed to him and pulled him down into a hug, which Armie received stiffly, his arms cautiously rising to hug her in return, but not too forcefully.

“Yes ma’am,” he said. “It’s nice to be back.” Timmy noticed a muscle in his jaw twitch, and wondered what he was feeling.

She pulled back and looked at Armie, and froze. Armie gazed back at her, his expression carefully bland.

“Momma?” Timmy said. “Are you okay?”

She blinked, and then smiled again. “Armie looks good, too,” she said. “Have you boys changed your diet?” Her tone was light, but there was an undercurrent of...something else that Timmy couldn’t quite identify. Caution? Fear?

“Not so much that we’re not starving,” said Timmy. “What’s for dinner?”

When Momma turned to him, she was back to normal, her eyes warm. “Just a pot roast,” she said. “Nothing fancy. Shall we go down?”

Dinner was mostly uneventful. At first, there were only three places set, and Armie went to the kitchen to eat with Vanda. That was the practice they had begun during Timmy’s senior year, once he had given up trying to reach Armie and couldn’t make himself stare at him across the table every single night. Timmy took a sip of his wine, listened to his parents argue mildly about something unimportant, and regretted everything.

After a minute, Papa turned to him. “How have things been?” he asked. “You said work was difficult. Good difficult, or bad difficult?”

“A little of both,” Timmy said. He explained about _Childress Group_. “I mean, it’s flattering they think I can handle such an important account. But maybe I can’t, since I can’t seem to keep them under control.”

“Hmm.” Papa swirled his wine and frowned. “Is the account losing money?”

“Not overall, no,” said Timmy. “I’m making them enough to cover their losses, but they’re making a hell of a lot less than if they’d just shut up and let me do my job.”

“Then I’d say you’re doing fine,” Papa said. “Maybe it’s sort of a test. Your bosses want to see if you can handle this without making a mess of it, and it sounds like you are. Clients can be a challenge.”

Timmy hadn’t considered that. Contrary to what he had been thinking, maybe _Childress_ could actually help, rather than harm, his career. It was something to think about.

He glanced at the empty chair across the table, where Armie used to sit, growing up. He wished Armie was there now, so that he could exchange a look with him and Armie would remind him later to fill him in on what he was thinking. But maybe it was better that he wasn’t, because even a look like that could give them away, and Timmy wasn’t sure if he could resist.

As if she could read his thoughts, Momma said, “Armie seems better.”

“What?” he asked.

“He seems to be doing better,” she said. “More himself than he used to be.”

“Is that why you wanted to bring him along tonight?” Papa asked. “I admit I was surprised when you mentioned he’d be with you.”

Timmy took a sip of wine to buy him a moment to think. “He is, I guess,” said Timmy. “It’s not as...bad as it used to be. To be around him. So maybe that’s helping him to relax more, since I can. We’ve been spending more time in each other’s company lately.”

Momma was watching him silently.

“I knew it would happen eventually,” Papa said. “I’m glad you decided not to give up on him. He’s an excellent Helper. Worth every penny.”

Timmy bit the inside of his lip in order not to grimace at the reference to money in relation to Armie. But that reminded him of why he had called his parents back and set this up in the first place.

“Actually,” Timmy said, “I had wanted to ask you — could I get his papers? Take them back to the city?”

Papa frowned. “Of course. They’re in the safe. Are you...considering selling him after all? He’d probably go for--”

“No,” said Timmy, the word bursting out with more force than he had intended. He cleared his throat. “No, not at all. I just thought it was time I had them. No reason for you to keep them here, and it’s probably wiser for me to have them with me. In case.”

Papa nodded, looking a bit relieved. “Good idea,” he said. “I’ll get them for you after dinner.”

“Thank you.” Timmy set his glass down, and then made a decision. It felt wrong not to have Armie here, and he decided it was worth the risk. “Do you think it would be okay if he ate with us?” he asked. “We usually do these days, and…”

Papa seemed mildly surprised at the question, but said, “Of course. Armie’s always welcome at our table. Have Vanda set his usual place.”

Timmy rose from his seat and headed into the kitchen. When he pushed open the door, Armie was speaking intently to Vanda, leaning in close. As soon as the door opened, he straightened up and stepped back, but relaxed when he saw it was Timmy.

“What are you doing?” Timmy asked.

Armie shook his head. “Nothing. I’ll explain later,” he said quickly. “Did you need something?”

“I wanted you to eat with us,” he said. “Like you used to.”

Armie frowned. “Is that wise?”

Timmy shrugged. “I don’t know. But I told you, I didn’t want to ignore you. I don’t want it to be like it was. Momma already commented that you seem more yourself, and I told them we’d been spending time together. So...unless you don’t want to, I’d like you in there rather than in here.”

A smile slid across Armie’s face, one that warmed his eyes. “Yes, sir,” he said.

Timmy heaved a sigh at that, but just grabbed a bowl, a napkin, and utensils from the butler’s pantry. “Come on,” he said.

Armie took the items from him. “It’s better if I set my own place,” he explained.

A few minutes later, they were seated at the table just like they used to be, and Vanda was serving up the pot roast. Timmy did his best to not pay too much attention to Armie, knowing that every time he looked at him, even for a moment, he was risking giving everything away. He had never been good at hiding his emotions.

Also, Momma was watching him. She watched as he poured Armie a glass of wine and set it next to his water, which he probably shouldn’t have done, but it felt wrong for Armie not to be sharing in what they were having. She watched as he talked more with his father about work, as he mentioned that he had taken up running again.

When he said he had started to learn how to cook, Armie snorted.

All eyes were on Armie in a second. He coughed, then took a drink of water, set his glass down and kept his eyes on his food.

“Are you okay, Armie?” Momma asked.

“Yes, ma’am,” he said. Timmy noticed that the left side of his mouth was curved up slightly. The bastard was laughing at him.

“He thinks it’s funny, that I said I’m learning how to cook,” Timmy said without thinking. “Because I’m not very good at it yet.”

Papa watched Armie. “Is that right?” he said. “Armie, is Timmy a bad cook?”

Armie’s eyes flickered to Timmy, and then over to Papa. He cleared his throat and wiped his features clean. “He is learning,” Armie said. “Slowly.”

Papa burst out laughing, looking delighted. Momma smiled as well, but her eyes, which were fastened on Armie, were less amused.

“I made spaghetti last week and some of it was mushy and some of it was crunchy and I don’t know how that happened,” Timmy explained. “So we ended up eating cereal.”

Armie sank his teeth into his lip, sitting rigidly. Timmy could tell he was trying not to laugh, and knew he shouldn’t make it more difficult. Instead, he slid his foot forward until he found Armie’s under the table, and nudged it. Armie nudged back.

After dinner, Papa apologized and said he had one more call to make. “I’ll get that out of the way and join you for drinks,” he said, “before you go. And I’ll grab Armie’s papers out of the safe.”

Momma stood and placed her napkin on her plate. “Let’s have those drinks in the library,” she said. When Armie made to start clearing the table, she put a hand on his arm. “Leave that for Vanda and join us.”

He nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”

Timmy hung back so Momma could lead the way, letting the back of his hand brush against Armie’s as they walked.

Once in the library, Momma shut the door behind them and then turned to Armie. She took his face in her hands.

“Welcome back,” she said, her voice heavy with emotion. “We’ve all missed you.” And then she folded him into a hug so tight he gasped. His eyes wide, he glanced over at Timmy before returning the hug just as fiercely.

When she pulled away slightly, she shook her head, unshed tears shining in her eyes.

“You have no idea how good it is to see you back to yourself,” she said. “Armie, you have to know, you’re like a second son to me. I always thought of you that way, loved you that way. Always.”

Tim gaped at them, and Armie swallowed. Timmy could tell that his emotions were overwhelming him. “I...know that,” he said. “Thank you. I always thought of you as my mother, even though I didn’t really have a right to.”

“Of course you had a right,” Momma said, patting his cheek. “Of _course_ you did.”

Timmy found his voice, finally. “But how did you know?” he asked. “How did you know he’s…”

“The eyes,” she said gently, swiping her thumbs on Armie’s cheeks, just under his eyes. “The eyes are a dead giveaway.” Both boys stared at her, and she sighed. “Sit,” she said. “I’ll get us those drinks, because I think we’re going to need them.”

“I can get them,” Armie said quickly.

“Sit,” she said firmly. “I’m perfectly capable of pouring...scotch, I think...into glasses.”

Armie raised his eyebrows at Timmy, and Timmy shrugged. He moved to the leather sofa and sank onto it, and Armie settled in one of the armchairs. Timmy wished Armie was sitting beside him, but figured that even if Momma knew he was better, she didn’t need to know about...the rest.

A moment later, they held their glasses of scotch, and Momma settled into the other armchair.

“Tell me,” she said, simply.

Timmy glanced at Armie, and this time it was Armie who shrugged. Figuring he should probably start, he tried to think about what he should say and what he should leave out.

“A couple of months ago, something — changed,” Timmy said. “I guess I realized that I had been selfish, and ignoring Armie’s feelings because of my own. So I started spending more time with him. Eventually...he was better.”

“Mmmhmm,” Momma said. “And when did he stop his injections?”

Timmy’s mouth dropped open.

“Around the same time,” Armie said, taking over. “It took awhile for it to...leave my system, I guess. It was about a week ago that I was truly back to normal.”

Momma nodded. “Especially with the dosage and concentration you must have been on,” she murmured. “It would take longer than normal for the effects to subside.”

Timmy was reeling. Momma knew about the injections. She knew they weren’t just vitamins, and that they were responsible for suppressing Armie’s emotions, his personality, his...self. She knew that if he came off of them, he’d be back to being _Armie_ again.

_She knew._

Had she known this whole time? He suddenly felt sick.

“Momma,” he managed, his voice weak. “How did you know about...all of this? The injections, the effect. And how long have you known? Did you just...is it…” He couldn’t make sense of it. He desperately wanted her to explain it away, explain that she just found out, that she would have _told_ him as soon as she knew.

Wouldn’t she?

Momma closed her eyes for a long moment. When she opened them again, she was looking at Armie, and not at Timmy.

“I’m sorry,” she said. "I'm so sorry, and I hope you can understand."

“Sorry about what?” Timmy asked. “Understand what? Momma, _how did you know_?”

She turned to him, and he was floored by the pain and stress he saw in her eyes, in the lines on her face. When she spoke, her voice dropped in volume, to barely above a whisper.

“I know because...a long time ago, I was a Helper.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hang in there with me.
> 
> I'm onlyastoryteller on Tumblr.


	16. The Confession

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Momma tells her story.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys, stop trusting me. I mean, trust me to tell the story, hopefully...but I clearly have no idea what I'm doing when I try to predict _length_ and chapters and things of that nature so best just to ignore chapter counts and anything I say with regard to them. I should just stop trying to do that right and stick to other things.
> 
> tl/dr: I split the last chapter again.
> 
> We're not quite to the end yet. Almost. But I won't make another prediction.

[Art by Chalamazed](https://twitter.com/chalamazed)

* * *

Timmy stared at his mother as if she were a complete stranger.

Momma didn’t speak. She clutched her scotch glass between two white-knuckled hands, holding so still that not even the liquid vibrated. The silence stretched out around them, creating a thin quality to the air such that with every passing second, Timmy felt like he struggled to draw in another breath.

A clock chimed in the corner, and Timmy blinked. The air rushed in, and he thought he could once more muster the breath to say something.

“I’m...you were what?” he asked.

Okay, he was wrong, It came out in a reedy gasp. Apparently he hadn’t yet recovered his breath.

“I was a Helper,” Momma said, her voice clearer, but still quiet. “As a child. Though unlike Armie, I wasn’t purchased until I was older. I spent my childhood in a Helper facility.”

“And Papa?” he asked.

“Your father doesn’t know,” she said.

Timmy looked over at Armie. His face was ashen, his lips slightly parted. What was going through his mind? Timmy wanted to go to him, to comfort him in some way, but he didn’t know how, since he was in much the same state.

“But...you’ve always known,” Timmy said, turning back to his mother. “You’ve _always_ known. The truth about Helpers. What they do to them. How they...take away their emotions, their own selves. For no reason at all.”

Momma hesitated, and then nodded. She remained silent, her jaw tense.

“You’ve always known. But...you _have_ a Helper. You got _me_ a Helper. And you didn’t...you let them take Armie. Make him...you could have done something. When he got back from training, you could have—we didn’t have to—we _lost—_ ”

It was when he saw Momma was looking up at him, tears in her eyes, that he realized he was standing. When had that happened? He was standing, and his fists were clenched into balls, pressing into his thighs. The forgotten glass of scotch was laying at his feet, soaking his shoes. He was leaning forward. He was shouting.

“Timmy,” said Armie, jumping up. “Wait—”

Timmy turned to Armie. “She did this to you. To _us_ ,” Timmy said.

Then he whirled around and stormed out of the room. He could barely see where he was going. The edges of his vision had blurred into a muddled grey, and spots of white danced across the middle. He just had to get _out_. Out, away from her, away from the confined spaces of this house.

He pushed his way through the back door and out onto the deck that spread out across the yard. There were floodlights, controlled by a panel by the door, but he ignored them in favor of the semi-darkness provided by the single motion-sensing light on the corner of the deck. He charged across the space, his feet stomping on the wooden boards, until he reached the railing.

Resting his hands on the wooden beams, he closed his eyes and drew in a long breath, pushed it back out. Another. It wasn’t helping. He felt like he was on ground that was unstable, rolling as if disturbed by an earthquake. It made him sick to his stomach, and he needed it to stop.

He shoved his hands in his hair, tugging at his curls, trying to use the pain to steady himself, and when that didn’t work either, he let out a series of shouts just to make sure he was still _there_ and hadn’t been swallowed up into a black hole.

“Hey. Timmy, stop.”

Armie’s voice somehow cut through the roaring in his ears. It was solid, gentle, reassuring. It helped. He stopped tugging, and waited.  

“It’s going to be okay,” Armie said. Timmy heard him move across the deck, felt his presence as he drew near. He stopped beside Timmy.

“How?” Timmy asked. He let go of his hair and allowed his hands to drop

“How is it going to be okay? Because it is. We’ll make it okay.”

Timmy opened his eyes and turned to Armie, took in the way his features were composed, his eyes gentle. “Why aren’t you angry? Why aren’t _you_ the one losing your shit? Why are _you_ comforting _me_?”

Armie shrugged. “I am angry. But I’ve _been_ angry already, about the same kind of thing, over and over.  It doesn’t really help anything.” He shifted closer. “And I’m comforting you because…” he turned his palms upward in a helpless gesture. “It’s my purpose.”

“Don’t _say_ that,” Timmy said, his voice rising again. “That’s not your purpose, it’s what you were forced to be, when they — when _she —_ fuck, you can’t be this calm about it.”

“Timmy—“

“Jesus Christ, Armie.” Timmy reached out and shoved at Armie’s chest. Armie took a step back, and Timmy knew it wasn’t because the impact had had any real effect, but because Armie was yielding to him. That made him see even more red. “Come _on_ ,” he said. “Fight back.”

“I’m not going to push you,” Armie said. “So don’t try to make me.”

“No, not me.” Timmy threw his hands into the air. “I mean fight back against....what we just found out. Think about what this means. She knew about everything. But she let it all happen. She let Papa _buy_ you, as if you were a...a _thing,_ or a _pet._ She let them take you away from me, and then let us live like that for nine fucking years. She could have prevented it, or fixed it, and she didn’t. I can’t be the only one to be upset about this.”

“You’re not,” Armie said.

“I’m not? Then how can you just stand there, and take it? You should be the one wanting to punch something, or throw something, or…” Timmy shook his head. “What is _wrong_ with you? _”_

Armie went absolutely still, with one exception: the muscle in his jaw twitched.

“I don’t know,” he said, his voice quiet. “I was thinking that the only things wrong with me were what was done _to_ me. Because you always saw so much more in me than I thought I was supposed to be. But maybe I was wrong. Maybe _I’m_ just wrong.”

Timmy immediately wanted to take everything back. Everything, from the words he had said, to his tone of voice, to his physical actions. His regret pushed aside his anger, momentarily, so that he could focus on something more important.

He stepped forward and placed his hands on Armie’s chest, but this time he didn’t push.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean that. I’m just...I feel like I’m going crazy here, and since I’m the only one, and you’re so calm, it makes me feel even more crazy.”

Armie sighed, and circled his arms around Timmy’s back, pulling him close.

“I know,” he said. “I’m so used to...I have to stay in control. It’s part of what I’ve always known I had to do. Training that started naturally even before I went away. And the reason I have to stay in control is so that I can be here for you.”

Timmy looped his arms around Armie’s neck and laid his head on Armie’s chest. “I hate that you feel that way,” he said. “I hate that you don’t feel like you’re allowed to let go. You are, you know. Sometimes you can let me be the steady one.”

Armie placed a kiss on Timmy’s head. “I’ll try,” he said. “And I _am_ angry, like I said. I’m furious. I’m angry at everyone, pretty much, except you. But the thing is...I’m going to forgive your mom.”

“How?” Timmy asked. “How can you be so sure?”

“Because if she was a Helper, and somehow got out...I can imagine how nervous she’d be about drawing any attention to herself. And also, Timmy—“ he gently pulled Timmy away from him so he could see his face. “She got _out_. Which means it’s possible. I’d like to know how. Maybe she can even help.”

Timmy’s heart clenched at that. Armie was right. _Fuck._

In addition to all of that, he realized he wanted to find out what had happened. What she knew. Listen to her story, since she was clearly telling them something almost no one knew.

“Okay,” he said. “Let’s go back in. See what she has to say.”

Armie leaned down and kissed him softly. “See? It’ll be okay.”

Back in the library, they found Momma seated in exactly the same spot, now with an empty glass on the table in front of her. She must have moved while they were gone, however, because the glass Timmy had spilled had been cleaned up, and a fresh glass sat in front of his spot.

She looked up at him, and he saw the way her eyes flickered with fear.

“I’m angry with you, Momma,” Timmy said, after closing the door behind them. “I am having a hard time believing that you’d do what you did to me...and to Armie, who you just said you loved like he was your son.”

“I do,” Momma said.

“So we’re going to listen. Tell us everything. And then…” he sighed. “And then we’ll figure out how to make it better.”

He felt Armie’s approving hand rub a circle on the center of his back, and leaned into it a moment before leading the way to the sofa. When Armie moved to walk past him to the armchair, he reached up and snagged Armie’s hand and tugged. Armie immediately sank onto the sofa beside him.

Tim didn’t let go of his hand.

Momma watched them.

“You two,” she murmured. “You’ve always been…” She looked from one to the other and smiled, but her eyes remained touched with sadness. “I’m glad you found each other, no matter how it happened.”

“It’s pretty much the only thing we’re thankful for,” said Timmy. He squeezed Armie’s hand and shifted closer, so their hips were touching. If Momma was revealing her darkest secrets, he wasn’t going to hide his relationship with the man he loved.

Momma sighed. “I don’t know where to start,” she said.

Armie spoke up. “You said you were a Helper. Now you’re not. Why don’t you start there.”

She folded her hands in her lap and straightened her shoulders.

“I grew up in a Helper facility,” she began, her voice growing steadier as she talked. “I was told I was born a Helper, what that meant, and was trained from very young. In those days, they had begun to allow purchase of child Helpers, but it was less common than it is now, so I lived there until I was just older than seventeen.

“I was purchased by an older couple, meant to be a Helper for the husband, who had had some health problems and needed extra support. I lived with them for about two years. I don’t remember all that much about that time, because I was under the influence of the DB-17 compound — that’s what the injections are — so it has always been fuzzy and by now has faded away.

“Eventually the husband died, and the wife decided to sell me. Sometimes people choose to sell Helpers back to the government, but she organized a private sale. You can often get more money, and many times the official purchase price will be different from the actual payment, to avoid taxes.

“My new owners picked me up, and the next thing I knew I was awake, back to myself, living in a cabin tucked away on a mountain. There were other Helpers there, and we were all in the same boat: we had been liberated.”

Momma paused then, staring off into the distance.

“Why?” asked Timmy. “I mean, who liberated you? Why did they choose you?”

She shook her head. “I’m not sure. Convenience? I was being sold, and so they executed the purchase. When I came back to myself, my Helper mark and my locator chip had been removed.”

“There is a locator chip?” Armie asked. “I suspected, but I wasn’t sure.”

“Of course,” said Momma. “They have to keep track of their assets.” She places a hand on the fleshiest part of her left thigh. “It’s in here,” she said. “Or...it used to be. I’m not sure if they’ve changed it.”

“Then what happened?” asked Timmy. His mind was racing. There were people out there — or there had been, anyway — who could help. “What did you do once you were free?”

“They set me up with a new identity and dropped me off in New York City. Got a job as a waitress at a bar near Wall Street. Which is when I met your father.” She smiled. “I was terrified at first, that someone was going to discover who I was, see the scar from my tattoo and guess. But instead, I fell in love. We got married, and I never told a single person that I was a Helper. Until now.”

Timmy reached out and picked up his glass of scotch. He took a drink, and then, without really thinking, handed it to Armie, who finished it off.

“But...if you were a Helper, and you knew the truth, how could you own Vanda? Let Papa get Armie for me?” He leaned into Armie with one shoulder. He hated talking about Armie like he was property, but he had to ask the questions. Armie leaned back, a silent response to say he was fine.

Momma stood and crossed to the bar, retrieved the bottle of scotch, and held it out in offering. Timmy glanced at Armie, who shook his head slightly.

“I’d better not,” he said. Armie patted his hand.

She poured a glass for herself and then answered Timmy’s question. “Vanda was a wedding gift. A surprise. I had no idea he was going to do it, otherwise I would have told him not to. Once I had her, I couldn’t just tell him to give her back.

“So I stopped her injections. She came out of her drugged state — it only took a few weeks, for both of us, which is why I’m guessing Armie’s dosage was high — and I explained everything. I told her she could go; that I would make sure she wasn’t reported for a while, that I would tell your father I didn’t want him to try to get her back. I offered to put her in touch with the people who helped me. But she was too scared to run.

“So she stayed. It was good for a while. We became close friends, and I enjoyed having her around. I treated her like that’s what she was, a friend, or an employee, and your father followed suit.

“Then, one day, she came to me and told me that she wanted to go back on the injections.”

“Why?” Timmy asked. That made no sense. Who would willingly choose to be in that state?

“She said it was too hard to have the knowledge that she was a slave. That she couldn’t run, but she couldn’t just stay and pretend, either, because that was also risky. And in addition, it was driving her mad to be herself and be unable to dictate her own life. So...I made sure it was what she wanted, and I lessened the dosage, and she...has been the way you know her now ever since then.”

_God._ Timmy tried to imagine what Vanda must have gone through. It was horrifying, the idea that you could choose to be numbed and not really have control over your life rather than to face reality or take it on and change it.

Then again, hadn’t he chosen to do just that with the booze for the past five years?

“The headaches,” Armie said, suddenly.

Momma nodded. “Yes. They’re the result of having gone off of the drugs and back on. Her brain rebels more than it did before, and she gets headaches. Have you experienced them?”

Armie nodded. “During training. And then again, towards the end, right before I woke up, when I was closer to myself again. I’d get them every so often. Mild, but painful.”

“I didn’t know that,” said Timmy.

Armie glanced at him sideways. “I didn’t want to worry you,” he said. “I’m fine.”

Timmy raised a hand to Armie’s forehead and traced a finger across his brow. “Are you still getting them?”

“No,” said Armie. “Not since I’ve been fully back.” He paused, took in Timmy's deep disapproving scowl, and smiled. “Okay, I get it. I’ll tell you next time.”

“You’ll sure as hell tell me next time,” Timmy said.

“Is that an order, sir?” Armie asked, winking.

“It’s a strongly worded request,” said Timmy. “And stop it with the ‘sir.’”

Armie leaned in and kissed him on the nose, and Momma cleared her throat. They both looked up.

“So you are together,” she said. “And this is what you _both_ want?” She looked sharply at Armie when asking the question.

“It is,” said Armie. “I know that you offered Vanda freedom. Well, Timmy offered it to me, too. I don’t want it, if it means leaving him, so I turned him down.” He draped an arm around Timmy’s shoulder and pulled him tightly against his side. His voice was firm, as if he expected Momma to challenge him, but she just nodded.

Timmy thought over everything she had told him, and he felt for her, for what she had been through. But it hadn’t made his anger subside over what she _hadn’t_ done.

“Momma,” he said, “I get that you did what you had to do with Vanda, and that you’re honoring her wishes. I don’t understand how, after that, you could let Papa get _me_ a Helper. I’m glad Armie is here with me, but how could you let it happen to a child?”

“I tried,” she said. “I tried to talk him out of it. Said that it would be better to wait until you were an adult. Maybe a college graduation gift. We could pick one already trained, proven, who would suit you. I thought that would buy me time. But he was insistent. You know how he gets. He was proud he could afford it, it would be a status symbol for us to have _two_ Helpers, one a child. He wanted you to have everything. I couldn’t move him.”

“But then you did nothing when they took him. And when he got back—“

“I _did_. I kept him away from that facility his entire childhood. Your father wanted to send him for periodic training as recommended but I said no. It helped that you were so wonderful—“ she smiled at Armie, “—and that you two were so attached to each other. I won those battles. But then I couldn’t find a way to get you out of mandatory training. I thought about telling you about it. Telling you to just pretend to be what they wanted, warn you about the drugs, but I was...scared. Scared you’d try to run and get caught, or that you’d tell someone by accident, or...tell the others in training with you and there would be an incident and they’d…”

She broke off and pressed a hand to her mouth.

“Please,” she said her eyes fastened on Armie, speaking quickly, her voice trembling. “I know I did it all wrong. When you didn’t come back right away, I knew I should have warned you, been honest with you. And then, when you did return, you were so far gone...I was terrified that trying to bring you back would cause more damage. I didn’t know if they had done something more than giving you the compound, and I just…these are excuses. I have no way to justify what I did. I’m so—”

Armie was up in an instant, stepped clear over the coffee table, and pulled her into his arms. She shook there, crying, for a few minutes, and he stroked her hair.

“I understand,” he said. “I do. You don’t have to justify it.”

Timmy watched Armie comfort her. He couldn’t bring himself to do the same, not yet, not while his chest was still thick with resentment at having lost so much time with Armie when it could have been prevented.

Armie was a better person than him, he knew it for sure in that moment.

After a while, Momma pulled away and wiped at her eyes. “Thank you,” she said. “For understanding, and for…”

She looked over at Timmy, and her face fell. He tried to compose his features into something bland, neutral, instead of the mix of hurt, frustration, and betrayal he was sure was there. He had never been good at concealing his feelings.

“You’re still angry,” she said. It wasn’t a question.

“I can’t help it,” he said. “Momma, do you have any idea how much I...what I was going through? What Armie was going through? Yes, I’m still angry. I’ll be angry for a while. I’m not as understanding as Armie is, and I don’t even really get how _he_ can be. That’s sort of pissing me off too, to be honest.”

He glanced at Armie when he said that, and couldn’t help the way his lips turned up. Armie rolled his eyes and returned the smile.

“It’s true,” Armie said. “Outside, he actually pushed me — twice — he was so pissed off that _I_ wasn’t more pissed off.”

She nodded. “You have every right to hate me,” she said. “Just... _please_...don’t tell your father. About any of it. He knows nothing, and I...please don’t tell him.” Her eyes implored him, and she had a hand half outstretched as if she could reach out and grab onto his agreement.

He drew in a deep breath. “I won’t,” he said. “And I’m not...I’m not saying that I’ll always be angry, or that I’ll never forgive you. I just need time.”

She seemed comforted by that, at least. She straightened her shoulders and stepped back, patting Armie on the shoulder in one last gesture of thanks.

“Can I ask you something, Momma?” Timmy ran a hand through his hair, tried to push aside what he was feeling and get more of the information he felt he needed.

“Of course,” she said, settling back into her chair. Armie came back around and sat with Timmy again, and that did a lot to make him feel more focused.

“Why don’t you want Papa to know? About you, but also about the Helper system? Do you think he’d report you? That if he knew, he’d still think the system was appropriate?” Timmy tried to imagine his father being in favor of Helpers after he knew the truth, and simply couldn’t. But then, he also wouldn’t have been able to imagine what his mother had told him tonight, so apparently he was a bad judge of character.

“No, nothing like that,” she said quickly. “I’m sure if he knew he’d be horrified, like you are. But I can’t take the risk of him knowing, because if anything happens and I’m found out, I want to be able to honestly say he had no idea.”

“Why?” asked Armie.

She pursed her lips. “The penalties for providing aid and comfort to fugitive Helpers are severe,” she said, her voice dropping. “If anyone uncovered the truth about me...well I don’t care what they’d do to me, but your father would be punished as well. He’d lose everything, face life in prison. I can’t risk that.”

Timmy’s stomach flipped. She was right, of course. Knowing the truth about the Helper system was risky. He began to understand more why she had been so scared to take action. Every single thing she said or did risked exposure not only for her, but for Papa too. And maybe for Timmy himself, since he was the son of a Helper, technically speaking.

“Timmy, listen to me,” she said, urgently, “and Armie too. What you’re doing is dangerous. If they find out that Armie isn’t taking his injections, if they learn that Timmy knows the truth about the system, they’ll come after you.”

He swallowed. “I know,” he said. “We’ve been talking about where to go from here, but we haven’t made any final decisions.”

“If you’re planning on being together in private and still pretending to be Master and Helper in public, there are some things you need to think about. When you’re out, Armie needs to pretend to still be under the influence of the DB-17 compound. You should practice that, because it’s not easy to pretend.”

“We fooled Papa tonight,” Timmy said.

“No you didn’t. He noticed Armie was doing better, and attributed that to natural growth, but officials won’t. Armie has to — sorry, honey — has to be even more rigid and closed in. Practice.”

“I’ll practice,” Armie said.

“And you—” she pointed at Timmy, “—have to practice not looking at Armie like he’s the love of your life.”

He felt a blush rising to his cheeks. “Do I really—”

“You really,” she said. She smiled. “It’s sweet, and I’m happy for you, but you’ve got to practice treating him like a Helper in public, not like your boyfriend. That might mean doing and saying things you don’t mean. You’ll just have to trust each other.”

“Okay,” Timmy said. “We can do that.” Armie reached out and took Timmy’s hand, folding into both of his own. Timmy settled at the contact.

She nodded. “And have you thought about what you’re going to do about the Helper clinic check-ups? When you go in, they’ll be able to tell Armie isn’t on the compound any longer. When is he due for his next appointment?”

A chill skittered down Timmy’s spine. He hadn’t even thought of that. How the hell were they going to fool—

“I have. Thought about it, I mean,” said Armie. _He had?_   "I’m not due until next year. I thought I’d start up the injections again a month or so before, and then stop them once the appointment is clear.”

“Wait a second,” Timmy said, turning to Armie, panic building deep in his chest. “It took you two months to come back once you were off the injections this time. That means I’d lose you for three months every other year? That’s — that’s not — I don’t want you to be —“

“Shhh.” Armie took Timmy’s face in his hands. “It’ll be okay. If that’s what we have to do, it’s what we have to do. We’ll handle it.”

“I don’t mean to scare you,” Momma said, “but it’s not that simple. It’s risky to go on and off the compound. We don’t know what it might do...certainly not after years of that.”

“You aren’t doing it,” Timmy said firmly. “I’m sorry, but I can’t let you ever go back to that state, especially not if there’s a danger to you. There has to be another way.” He turned to his mother. “Can you help us?”

She hesitated, then, seeming to make a decision, she nodded. “Just a minute,” she said. She stood and went to the small desk in the corner of the room, withdrew a pad of paper and a pen, and returned to her chair. She scribbled on the pad, ripped off the sheet, and held it out. “I can’t write down the name. It’s too risky. You’ll just have to remember which name goes with which number. Can you do that?”

He nodded and took the paper, and Armie said, “We can.”

“This one is a woman named Ilaria. She can help out with the eye issue.” She gestured at Armie. “Like I said, the eyes are a dead giveaway. Ilaria can get you special contacts to wear when you’re out. I had some made for Vanda back when — but Armie should have his own custom made.”

Timmy glanced at Armie. This was helpful. They could do that.

She scribbled a second number. “This is Dr. Gerwig. She works with the Helper clinic in Manhattan. She’s one of us — meaning, she’s for Helper liberation. Call her; she’ll make sure you get an appointment with her when you go in, and she’ll fake the results.”

_Holy shit._ This was serious. It was one thing to get colored contacts, to practice faking a Master/Helper relationship. It was another to see a special doctor who would help them fool the government.

“Thank you Momma,” he said.

“One more.” She write a final number and passed him the paper. “This is Luca Guadagnino. He’s...he can help you in other ways. He’ll get you new identities, passports, in case something happens and you need to leave. He can help you set up funds that can’t be traced.”

He was nodding now. And if he and Armie decided to flee, to disappear, which was one of their other options, it sounded like this Luca was someone who could help them.  

“I can probably take care of the money,” Timmy said.

“This is better than what you could do,” said Momma, shaking her head. “There is a system of false companies set up that you can invest in. Some will lose your money while others will increase your holdings. It’s a way to scrub funds and siphon them into untraceable accounts.”

_Some will lose your money…_

Timmy turned to Armie to find Armie looking at him, his gaze sharp. Armie nodded slightly to let Timmy know they were thinking the same thing. _The Childress Group_ and their losing investment strategies. He refocused on his mother.

“That really happens?” he asked.

She shrugged. With a small smile, she said, “If they can do it to finance their operations, so can we.”

Was she implying that the Helper system also had a network of false companies for a similar purpose? And if so...was _Childress_ connected with the Helper system or with the other side? Was there a way to find out? The idea that he could have been inadvertently assisting the people who kept Armie and others like him enslaved was sobering. But it could also be a way to get more information...if they decided to try to do something about the Helper lies.

“One more thing,” she said. “When you call any off those people...tell them Pauline sent you.”

“Thank you,” Armie said. “We appreciate the help.”

She placed a palm on her cheek and closed her eyes for a long moment. When she opened them, they spoke of regret and fear. “I wish I didn’t have to help,” she said. “I wish neither of you had to deal with any of this. But I’ve been silent and in hiding for too long. If you need me...I’m there for you.”

He bit his lip and nodded, trying to maintain his calm. He was afraid — afraid of making the wrong choice, afraid of screwing something up that would result in harm coming to Armie, or his parents, afraid of basically everything that lay ahead. Deciding to live out their lives as Master and Helper was the lowest risk, despite having to hoodwink the government. If they tried to run, and got caught, that would be the end of it. And if they decided to try to help, as Armie had suggested...that was the biggest risk of all, because they'd truly be putting their necks on the line.

As he let the fear and uncertainty cycle through him, he realized one thing: he was beginning to understand how his mother had been paralyzed by her fear, choosing to make no choice rather than the wrong one. He stared at her.

Finally, Timmy stood and went to her. He perched on the arm of her chair and wrapped his arms around her, squeezing her tight. After a moment, she returned the embrace. She didn’t apologize again. He didn’t tell her she was forgiven. But it was enough.

Now all that was left was for he and Armie to figure out what to do next. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm onlyastoryteller on Tumblr. Love to you all.
> 
> (If you go back to the first chapters, you may see a lot of what Momma talks about here hinted at throughout. If I did it right.)


	17. The Choice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Endgame.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are, the final chapter. After this, there will be a short epilogue, which takes place a little ways into the future.
> 
> I'll save all of my effusive thanks until then, but for now I'll just say: I love you all for coming on this journey with me and the boys.
> 
> 100% fiction, as always.

[Art by Chalamazed](https://twitter.com/chalamazed)

* * *

The drive back to the city was quiet, with each of them deep in their own thoughts. Timmy’s thoughts were a swirl of phrases, images, and emotions.

_What you’re doing is dangerous._

_Armie with grey eyes, a blank expression, making objective observations and calling him “sir.”_

_“I’ve been silent and in hiding for too long.”_

_A box of glass syringes filled with milky liquid._

_“If that’s what we have to do, it’s what we have to do.”_

_“He’ll get you new identities, passports, in case something happens and you need to leave.”_

_Armie running away from the Helper facility and getting caught._

_“It’s going to be okay. We’ll make it okay.”_

He imagined that Armie was in a similar state. The one time he dared to glance into the passenger seat, Armie was staring out the window, frowning. He wasn’t even clutching at the handles for dear life, even though Timmy was clocking a good fifteen miles over the speed limit and passing cars every few seconds.

The silence between them continued until they entered the apartment and Timmy closed the door behind them. Then, without warning, Armie grabbed Timmy’s keys and flung them aside. They skittered under a console table.

“Hey,” Timmy said. “What—”

And Armie was on him, cutting off his question with a kiss that left no room for argument. Timmy simply gave in to the assault, letting Armie plunge into his mouth with a bruising, teeth-clacking force.

Armie grabbed his hips, his fingers digging deep into his flesh. He yanked Timmy against him and transferred his grip to Timmy’s ass, pulling his cheeks apart and sliding his hands into his crevice.

Timmy gasped and shuddered into Armie’s mouth.

Armie pulled an inch away, and uttered a single word. “Please.”

“Always,” said Timmy.

At his assent, Armie dropped to his knees and unbuckled Timmy’s pants, pulling his pants and boxers roughly down to his knees, his nails scraping against Timmy’s skin and leaving trails of pink marks on the pale surface. Before Timmy could react, Armie swallowed Timmy down in one smooth motion.

Timmy grabbed onto Armie’s shoulders, trying to keep his balance, as he threw his head back and let his mouth fall open. Armie worked Timmy steady up towards his climax, giving him no rest or relief.

“Wait,” Timmy gasped. “Armie, I’m going to...stop I’m going to…”

Armie pulled off and stood, lifting Timmy on the way and throwing him over his shoulders in a fireman’s hold. Timmy flailed for a moment, disoriented, and then grabbed onto Armie’s bicep. His legs were bound together with his pants, and he had never felt so...at someone’s mercy.

He liked it, because it was Armie.

He held on as Armie carried him through the apartment and straight back to his bedroom. Once there, Armie tossed him on the bed and yanked his shoes, pants and boxers off. He grabbed Timmy’s shirt and dragged it over his head, flinging it to the side, then pushed him flat on the bed.

“Don’t move,” Armie said.

Timmy didn’t move.

Instead, he watched Armie divest himself of his own clothes in three seconds flat, a look of focused determination on his face, his jaw tense, his eyes darkened. Armie climbed up on the bed at his feet and looked down at him.

Armie laid a hand on his stomach. “I know we have a lot to talk about,” he said, his voice quiet, “but right now, can we just do this?”

He dragged his hand south until it was laying flat on Timmy’s groin and he was bracketing Timmy’s cock with his thumb and forefinger.

“Just for a while,” Armie breathed. “I want to pretend that I can love you in peace.”

Timmy nodded, taking short, uneven breaths, his stomach tightening in anticipation.

“For as long as you want,” he said. “If I can love you back.”

Armie shifted forward and answered Timmy with a soul-clenching kiss.

Things moved at a slow pace after that, but it was far from languid. To the contrary, every move Armie made seemed laced with a deliberate intensity that left Timmy unable to do more than react without thinking.

First, Armie made a thorough exploration of Timmy’s chest with his mouth. He sucked and nibbled and licked at every inch of Timmy’s skin, leaving no cell unsampled.

Each nipple received a ten minute torture, sucked into a hard point and scraped and twisted with teeth and tongue.

Next, Armie nuzzled into Timmy’s neck, breathing deeply, before kissing his way up to the sensitive spot behind Timmy’s ear and licking until Timmy shuddered beneath him.

Then Armie replaced his mouth with his hands. He sat up and traced every muscle, every tendon, every rib with his fingers, lightly at first and then with more pressure. It should have tickled, but Timmy was so enthralled with the look of reverence on Armie’s face that his nerve endings remained quiescent, and he felt warm and cared for rather than agitated.

With one last kiss to Timmy’s lips, Armie turned his attentions to Timmy’s lower half. Beginning at the bottom, he spent some time kneading Timmy’s arches and stroking the tops of his feet. Then he brought a foot to his mouth and kissed Timmy’s ankle, commencing his upward journey. Bit by bit, he gave Timmy’s leg the same dedicated focus, lingering at the soft skin at the back of Timmy’s knees and the silky area of his inner thigh. By the time Armie turned to the other leg, Timmy was shaking.

He gasped when Armie placed a large hand on each of Timmy’s thighs and spread his legs wide and tilted his hips up. His eyes, which had helplessly fluttered closed somewhere around the worship of his first knee, sprang open when he felt Armie use his thumbs to separate Timmy’s cheeks, in time to see Armie lowering his head. His breath exploded out of him at the first swipe of Armie’s tongue against his hole and he felt his muscle quivering under the attention.

For a few minutes, the only sounds that hung in the air were Timmy’s labored breathing, the pounding of his heart — that Armie _must_ have been able to hear — and and lapping sounds of Armie’s tongue. Then Armie pushed his tongue inside and Timmy cried out, breaking the quiet.

Once he started, he couldn’t hold back the moans any longer, especially not with the way Armie was probing his ass and teasing the bundles of nerves there. His cock was rock hard and leaking steadily at this point, but Armie hadn’t yet touched him. He was tempted to take himself in hand, but something told him that would be a bad idea, so he gripped at the sheets and dug his fingers into the mattress instead.

After what seemed like years, Armie hummed and sat back on his heels. Timmy, who had closed his eyes again, opened them when he felt Armie’s hands and mouth leave him. He looked up and sucked in a breath at the look on Armie’s face.

_Fuck._

With a low growl, Armie was on him then, shoving his legs even further apart and settling between them with a slow thrust that dragged their cocks together. Timmy whimpered at the long-awaited contact, and then let out a sob when Armie did it again.

“You like that?” Armie asked against his ear. Timmy nodded rapidly. “How about this?”

Armie reached between them and took both of their cocks in his hand, using Timmy’s copious precome as lube to ease the way as he began to stroke firmly and rhythmically. He closed his mouth over Timmy’s, cutting off his cries, and tightened his grip.

Timmy was beginning to feel like he was tumbling through space, as if the bed has fallen away and he had lost all tether to what was tangible aside from the touch of Armie’s hand and his mouth, the scent of his sweat, and the heat of his breath as he broke the kiss and buried his face in Timmy’s neck.

Suddenly, Armie let go of their dicks and shifted, and Timmy felt the tell-tale bump of Armie’s head against his hole.

“Okay?” Armie whispered urgently.

Timmy could only moan in response, confident he had lost the ability to use language. Instead of speaking, he reached down and grabbed Armie’s hips and yanked, tilting his own hips up.

Now Armie moaned, as his head slipped inside. Timmy whimpered at the sharp burn, but yanked again and again. Armie sank in farther and farther until he was fully seated, his balls pressing up against Timmy’s ass.

They held their breath, hovering in that space of filling and being filled for a long moment. Then Armie began to move.

Where before the progress had been maddeningly slow, now there was a distinct shift, and everything seemed to rush at him: Armie’s rasping breath, the drag of his cockhead against Timmy’s prostate, the heat of his hand as it flew on Timmy’s dick, the ever-increasing tightening in his balls and belly.

Where before there had been near silence, a hushed bubble surrounding them, the air was now rich with the sounds of intense lovemaking: the groans and cries and whimpers and sobs that emerged from deep inside them both, the slapping of skin, the creaking of the bed springs, the thumping of the headboard against the wall.

Where before Armie had seemed focused but reverent, the tension almost worshipful, now his body spoke more of desperation: fingers digging into muscle, palms slipping across sweat-slicked limbs, lips opened wide against salty skin sucking deep marks wherever they could reach, movements ragged and erratic.

As Timmy tried to hang on, tried to keep up with the pace Armie had set, he found himself losing his tenuous grip on control until, without warning, his orgasm punched through him like the iceberg through the Titanic, ripping holes through his soul along the way. He screamed into Armie’s mouth and exploded between them, his ass clenching around Armie’s cock.

Armie cried out in response, and with one last punishing thrust, released into Timmy, his body tensing up in rigid lines and his hands tugging painfully at Timmy’s curls.

For long minutes afterwards, they lay still, Armie’s body covering Timmy’s like a weighted blanket, breathing noisily into each other’s necks. Timmy felt like his blood had been replaced with a thick gel that pumped sluggishly into his jello-like limbs. He was vibrating, his cock still twitching between them, and he wondered for a moment if he was still conscious or if he had passed out somewhere in the midst of the climax.

Then Armie turned his head and kissed Timmy’s cheek.

“I love you,” he whispered, his words slurred. “Never forget.”

Timmy managed to lift his arms enough to drape them across Armie’s back. He trailed his fingers up and down Armie’s spine, and Armie sighed happily.

“I won’t,” said Timmy. “You either.”

Armie hummed, and then his breathing slowed. Timmy’s last thought before he drifted to sleep was to think that he didn’t really care what choice they made about their future. He never wanted or needed anything other than this.

* * *

When Timmy woke up a few hours later, he reached out instinctively and found the other side of the bed empty, the sheets chilled.

He sat up and looked around blearily. It was still the middle of the night, since sky was still dark. His throat was dry as a bone, so he rolled out of bed, groaning a little as his muscles and abused ass protested the movement, and stumbled into the bathroom to drink from the tap.

After wiping his chin on a hand towel, he went in search of Armie.

The apartment was dark, and he had no good idea of what time it was until he pushed into the kitchen and saw the glowing blue numbers that said it was just after three in the morning.

Armie wasn’t there, neither was he in the living room or the dining room. When he peered into the opposite hallway, he was surprised to see a sliver of light peeking out from underneath the door of Armie’s old bedroom.

He moved down the hall and reached out a hand to turn the knob and stopped an inch away, his chest tightening with uncertainty.

Why would Armie be in his old room? Why would he have left their bed, especially after the round of epic lovemaking they had shared? He expected to wake up with Armie wrapped around him, holding close...or vice verse. He didn’t expect Armie to have retreated into his own space.

Timmy swallowed and drew his hand back. Should he leave him alone? If he had come in here, and closed the door, separating himself from Timmy, maybe he needed that space.

_For what?_

He scolded himself for even thinking that. It wouldn’t be that strange — it would be expected, actually — for Armie to have a need for his own space, especially since he had just come back to himself. Timmy didn’t have a right to one hundred percent of Armie’s time and attention. Technically, under the Helper system, he did...but it had been a foregone conclusion for Timmy long before he learned the truth about Helpers that he would never think to demand that.

If Armie needed some time to himself, Timmy should respect that.

Timmy lost track of how long he stood at the door, thinking. Then he heard a soft “ _fuck_ ” from inside the room and the distress that surrounded the word propelled him into motion. He turned the handle and pushed open the door, stepping into the room.

What he saw sent his heart into the souls of his feet, froze him from head to toe, and made his mouth go dry all over again.

Armie was seated on his old bed. In his lap was the leather box, and in his hand was a syringe.

_No._

“Armie?” His whisper was laced with fear. “What are you doing?”

Armie looked up, and the aching sadness in his eyes was enough to unfreeze Timmy’s muscles and send him surging forward. He sank to his knees in front of Armie and placed his hands on Armie’s bare feet.

He didn’t know what he was planning to say, but what came out when he opened his mouth was, “No, _please_.”

Armie shook his head. “I wasn’t...I wasn’t going to do anything,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “Not without talking to you. I wouldn’t have...I wasn’t doing anything. I was just thinking.”

Was Armie thinking about resuming his injections? He couldn’t be. He _couldn’t be_ thinking of that, of going back to the state he had been forced into. Why would he even consider that?

He felt sick as soon as he remembered what Momma had said about Vanda.

_“She said it was too hard to have the knowledge that she was a slave. That she couldn’t run, but she couldn’t just stay and pretend, either, because that was also risky. And in addition, it was driving her mad to be herself and be unable to dictate her own life.”_

Timmy swallowed hard. The thought that Armie might feel the same way, that he would rather be drugged than deal with the reality they faced, made him dizzy as the blood fled from his head. He actually felt himself pale, and he made himself take several deep breaths to push the stars out of his vision before he could speak again.

“Thinking about _what_?” Timmy asked. He shifted closer, slid his hands up to Armie’s knees, closer to the hand holding the syringe. He could grab it if necessary, throw it against the wall. Throw them all against the wall.  

Unless...this was what Armie truly wanted. Could he deal with that? With going back, now that they had moved forward? With having Armie numbed and mildly responsive instead of...himself?

“Were you...thinking about what Momma said about Vanda?” Timmy was almost afraid to hear Armie’s answer.

“No,” Armie said, “I was thinking that all of our choices — whether we just stick with status quo and live separate public and private lives, or we flee the country under new identities, or we try to do something about exposing this system and trying to end it — _all_ of those choices are bad for you.”

“For me?” Timmy frowned. At least Armie wasn’t thinking about going back on the injections for the same reasons Vanda did. That was a small relief. But this was concerning too.

“Yes. If we stay and hide our relationship and the fact that I’m no longer truly a Helper, you’d be giving up so much. We talked about having kids, but realistically that could never work, because then we’d have to hide our relationship from them too until they were old enough to understand and be able to keep a secret.”

“We’ll figure it out,” Timmy said. “We’ll make it okay, remember?”

Armie smiled faintly. “If instead we tried to do something about this Helper system...expose it, destroy it, whatever...well, you heard your mother. It’s dangerous even to be off the injections. In either case, if we get caught, I don’t care what happens to me, but you’ll be guilty of providing aid and comfort to a fugitive Helper. I can’t let—“

He broke off and looked away. Timmy shifted again so that he was no longer sitting on his heels and slid his hands along the outside of Armie’s thighs.

“It’ll be fine,” Timmy said. “We’ll be careful. And if we have to, we can leave.”

Armie sighed. “And if we leave, you’d be leaving behind your whole life. Your family, your career...everything.”

“Everything except you.”

Timmy watched apprehensively as Armie began to roll the syringe slowly between his fingers. He was quiet while he did this, staring at it. After a minute, he raised his eyes to Timmy, and they were pools of distress.

“You say that like I’m enough to make up for all that you’d lose.”

His heart clenching, Timmy took a hand and placed it around the one with the syringe and squeezed.

“You _are_ ,” he said.

Armie let out a sad laugh. “You say that now, but the truth is…we barely know each other now. We just started — you might regret —“

“Nothing,” Timmy said. “ _Nothing._ I’ll regret nothing. It’s not true that we barely know each other. You know me just as well now as — better than — you did when we were kids. And I know you. I know that you can’t really be okay with going back under voluntarily. You don’t want to do this,” he said firmly, taking the syringe from Armie’s hand.

Armie let him take it, let him put it back in the box, let him take the box and set it on the ground out of reach, which sent a small wave of relief over him.

“I will do it,” Armie said, his own voice firm, “if it’s the only way to keep you safe.”

The relief fled at Armie’s tone.

“You said you weren’t going to do anything without talking to me,” Timmy said.

“I wasn’t. And we’re talking now.”

“Armie—“ a bubble of panic rose up in Timmy’s chest. What if Armie placated him now, and then he went to work one day and came home and Armie was...half dead again? What if he...decided to make himself not be a problem for Timmy some _other_ way, by leaving, or by—

Timmy sprang off the floor and climbed into Armie’s lap. He wrapped his arms and legs around Armie and clung, burying his face in Armie’s neck.

“ _Please_ ,” he said. “Please don’t go. I know I said you could, and if...just let me come with you if you do. And don’t...don’t put yourself under again, I can’t—“

Armie wrapped his arms around Timmy’s back, pulling him close.

“I’m not leaving,” Armie said. “I told you I don’t want that. But if...if I went back to how it was, you’d be safer, and at least we could be together. I mean, now that you know it’s still me—“

Timmy pulled back. “Stop,” Timmy said. “I’d love you any way I could. But this isn’t...this isn’t like giving me your ice cream because it isn’t as melted, for fuck’s sake. I’m not going to let you put some idea of my safety over your _identity_. I get to decide what kind of a risk I want to take.”

“You’re not going to _let_ me?”

“Not a chance,” Timmy said. “It’s not. An. Option.”

They eyed each other a long moment. Timmy tried to keep his features strong and sure, even though inside he was terrified and trembling. Finally, Armie leaned forward and kissed his nose.

“Okay,” he said.

“Okay? You’re going to stop suggesting the injections and talking about my safety as though I can’t make my own decisions?”

Armie nodded. “As long as you understand this is a lot riskier than climbing a tree. If we fall, I don’t think we’re going to get away with just a sprain.”

“Noted,” Timmy said. He sighed and rested his head on Armie’s shoulder. “Fuck, you scared me. When I came in here and saw you holding that...thing…”

“I told you, I wasn’t going to do anything without talking to you. I just needed to think a little first. Work it out, figure out if I could do it.” He ran his hands up and down Timmy’s back. “But that still leaves us with a decision to make.”

“Right,” Timmy said. “Three choices. Do you know what you want to do?”

“No,” said Armie. “Do you?”

“I don’t. Let’s sleep on it? Take a few days to think?”

“Okay.”

Armie kissed Timmy’s shoulder, and then his neck. It was enough for Timmy to remember they were both still naked. He suddenly needed to claim Armie, the way it felt like Armie had claimed him earlier. He turned his head and sucked on Armie’s collarbone.

“Let’s go back to bed,” he whispered, his lips brushing Armie’s skin.

* * *

For the next week, they talked about the next steps, what each choice would entail, the dangers, the benefits, the logistics. They also settled into a semblance of normality.

On Sunday, they spent a lazy day walking around Central Park, watching movies, reading, and napping together in various spots around the apartment.

During the week, Timmy went to work, paying close attention to _The Childress Group_ account and the way his bosses interacted with the account. He decided to start tracking the investment requests and paying close attention to the timing and the amount of money being invested at the client’s request. He quietly copied the account information onto a personal flash drive.

Armie went about his normal routine. Timmy was glad he was being sure to wear sunglasses whenever he left the house and to cover up his Helper mark as much as possible.

On Friday, after polishing off the pizza Timmy had brought home from work in lieu of taking his turn cooking, Armie cleared his throat.

“I think I’m ready to make a decision,” he said.

Timmy blinked at him in surprised, a bolt of adrenaline shooting through him.

“You are?”

Armie nodded. “Have you thought about it? Are you close to…”

Timmy took a deep breath. “I am,” he said. “I know what I want to do. Let’s...clean up and then talk.”

As they cleared the dishes and stored the leftovers, neither spoke. The silence pulled Timmy’s nerves taut, his anxiety twanging along them like a bluegrass jig.

What if he and Armie wanted different things? Would they be able to come to a decision that they were both comfortable with? What if Armie just said he was okay with their decision because he was yielding to Timmy, the way he was used to doing? What if he was choosing _wrong_ and his choice brought Armie harm? What if —

Once again, thoughts swirled in Timmy’s head, first the incessant questions, but then something slowly began to take over.

Memories.

_“Timmy, I’d like you to meet Armie. Armie, this is Timmy, my son.”_

_“You have_ me _. I watch out for you. Forever.”_

_“I’m your best friend?”_

_Kissing Armie for the very first time, and the way it felt when Armie kissed him back._

_“Kick some ass, Timmy.”_

_A Helper’s purpose is to provide aid and comfort for his Master, in any way the Master expresses, wishes, or needs._

_“It doesn’t please you when I touch you or when I am around too much.”_

_“I feel...happy.”_

_The sight of Timmy’s high school keepsakes tucked in Armie’s bottom drawer._

_“Your name on it. So everyone knows it’s yours. Just like me.”_

_“Timmy.”_

_The feel of Armie’s skin, slick with exertion, as he moaned under Timmy’s touch._

_“To you. I was trying to get home to you.”_

_“I was made for you.”_

_“I love you. Never forget.”_

As Timmy looked back over the life he had spent with Armie, the good times and the bad, his nerves quieted and a calm settled over him. He knew what he thought the best choice was, but — unless Armie pulled something like he had tried to pull last weekend — whatever choice they landed on, he knew they could make it work.

When the dishes were done, they moved into the den and sat on the sofa. Instead of curling up around each other as usual, they sat at opposite ends, facing each other. Armie’s face was serious, but he didn’t look worried.

“Timmy,” he began, “the first thing I want to make clear is that I can live with any of the three choices. Whatever we end up doing...I’ll be satisfied.”

“Me too,” said Timmy. “I was just thinking that. It doesn’t really matter what we pick, because...we’ll find a way. I want to make sure you understand something. You asked me a while back if there was ever anyone serious during...our time apart. I told you no.”

“Right,” said Armie. He looked wary now.

“That was true. But I want you to know that it’s not because I didn’t _try_. I did. I didn’t live like a monk. I looked for someone else. I tried to fall in love. Pretended to be in love to see if doing that would make it happen. Nothing worked. So...I don’t want you to worry that being with you means I don’t have a chance at something else. I had a chance. It didn’t take. This is where I want to be.”

Timmy watched Armie carefully as he spoke. Armie’s face remained impassive, but he nodded.

“It’s sort of the same,” he said. He smirked. “I obviously didn’t date half of Manhattan—”

“Neither did I, asshole,” Timmy laughed.

“— but I know you worry a little about how I feel.”

“I...am trusting you,” said Timmy. “Partly because I have a hard time thinking about you going off and falling for someone else. But if you _wanted_ to try—”

“I don’t,” said Armie.

“Then I’ll believe you,” said Timmy. “As long as you believe me.”

Armie nodded. “Okay, “ he said, “what do you want to do?”

“No way,” said Timmy. “You go first.”

“Why?”

“Because you have an annoying habit of putting me before you, and I’m worried if I say what I think we should do first you’ll just agree without expressing your own preference.”

Armie rolled his eyes. “And if I say what I want to do first, you might just agree for the same reason. Timmy, I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but this whole _I just want you to be happy_ thing has been going both ways since we were kids. It’s not just me.”

Timmy thought about that. It was true, for the most part, and it made him feel warm inside to know that Armie saw that too.

“Then what do we do?” he asked.

Armie stood and went to the desk in the corner. He took a pad of paper and two pens and brought them back to the sofa. After tearing off a sheet from the pad, he handed the pad and the pen to Timmy.

“Here. Write down your choice. Status quo, run, or stay and fight. I’ll do the same, and then...we’ll see.”

Timmy hesitated, his pen hovering over the paper. Then he tucked his tongue into the corner of the page and scribbled five words. He folded the paper in half.

Armie had also finished writing, and when Timmy looked up, he held out his folded square. Timmy took it in exchange for Armie’s.

This was it. He was going to see what Armie really wanted to do, and then they could work it out. He had a lot of ideas, no matter which choice they made. He’d been thinking hard about every eventuality.

Just as Timmy was about to unfold his paper, he heard a soft curse, and looked up. Armie was staring at Timmy’s paper, a stricken look on his face. Then he burst out laughing.

Timmy blushed. He wasn’t sure why Armie was laughing. He knew what he had written, and he expected Armie to be annoyed rather than amused.

“What’s so funny?” he asked, pushing his chin out in a tiny gesture of defiance.

“Open mine,” Armie said. “And you’ll see.”

Timmy took in Armie’s sparkling eyes and wry smile, and couldn’t help but smile in return. He unfolded the paper, the anticipation so thick he could taste it. What he saw there made his mouth drop open, and then in a moment, he was laughing too.

He and Armie had written the exact same fucking thing.

_I want what you want._

Armie lunged at Timmy then, taking advantage of his distraction to mount a tickle attack. He was ruthless, digging his fingers into all of Timmy’s most sensitive spots. Timmy struggled to draw in breath as he writhed under Armie’s hands. Finally, after a lot of wriggling, he managed to get the upper hand — or Armie let him — and pushed Armie back on the sofa, straddling him, holding his hands over his head.

He lowered his head and kissed Armie deeply. Armie moaned slightly at the assault, shifting his hips upward and into contact with Timmy’s ass.

When Timmy pulled back, they were both smiling and slightly breathless.

“I think we have to do that again,” said Timmy.

“You want me to tickle you some more?” Armie asked. “My pleasure.”

“I meant write down our choices,” said Timmy. “For real this time. I would have told you the truth about what I thought was the best choice, but I wanted you to know that I really am okay with anything we decide.”

“Me too,” said Armie.

Timmy slid off of Armie and let him sit up, but he didn’t let go of Armie’s hands. “So,” he said. “We agree on that. Whatever we decide, we’re in it together.”

“Always have been,” said Armie.

"Then let's just say what we were thinking," said Timmy. "On the count of three. Ready?"

"Ready," said Armie.

"One, two, three—"

Of course, in the end, they had made the same choice. It was inevitable. 

Timmy smiled, excited at the prospect of their future. It was a little scary, but there were also so many possibilities that lay ahead. Aside from that, knowing that they had each other would always be a true gift. No matter what, Armie belonged to TImmy, and Timmy belonged to Armie. 

That was the real comfort. And it was the only one Timmy needed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All that's left is the epilogue. I hope to have that up for you soon. The boys need their true happy ending. After all, I want what you want.
> 
> I'm onlyastoryteller on Tumblr.


	18. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The End.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm a little emotional that we've come to the end of this story. I can't quite believe that, two month ago, this story did not exist, because it feels like it has existed inside me as a story I've been trying to tell since I knew how words formed sentences and choices formed plots.
> 
> When I first dreamed this story -- literally dreamed -- I bothered a few people and made them listen to the basics. I asked them a million questions: does this seem like something people might want to read? is it too out there as an AU? are people going to hate me for what I'm about to put them through? All of these people told me to start writing immediately. I'm so glad I listened. I truly am blessed to have such trusted advisors.
> 
> And I never anticipated the reception it would get. I didn't expect that all of you would be so willing to go on this journey with me. So...thank you, thank you, thank you. From the bottom of my heart.

****

**[Art by Chalamazed](https://twitter.com/chalamazed) **

* * *

 

_One year later_

Timmy stumbled out of the elevator, the toe of his shiny black patent leather Oxford catching on the door sill. When he reached out a hand to steady himself, he grabbed onto a wall sconce and it popped right off of the wall with a loud crack.

“Fuck.” He staggered an additional step to the left and then caught his balance. He stared at the sconce in his hand, wires trailing out the back, and then burst out laughing.

“Okay,” Armie said, coming up behind Timmy and setting a warm, steadying hand on his shoulder. He gently took the sconce from Timmy’s hands. “Careful now.”

He set the sconce on the floor and turned back to Timmy, an amused grin on his face.

Timmy shrugged, beaming up at him. “They fixed it once. They can fix it again,” he said. The ground suddenly seemed to shift under his feet and he lurched to the left.

“Woah.” Armie grabbed his arm to yank him upright and then drew him in, pulling Timmy tight against his chest.

Timmy sighed and leaned into the embrace, rubbing his face against Armie’s lapel. After a moment, he nuzzled his way under the smooth, dark fabric to the crisp white shirt beneath. When that wasn’t enough, he unbuttoned two buttons and worked his nose inside to the soft hair that peppered Armie’s chest, inhaling deeply. When he exhaled, he hummed happily. Armie chuckled, his chest vibrating against Timmy’s cheek.

The next thing Timmy knew, the world was turning sideways, but this time it wasn’t because of the alcohol he had consumed. No, it was because Armie had scooped him up and was now cradling him, one arm under his knees and the other at his back. Timmy slung his arms around Armie’s neck.

“What are you doing?” he asked, giggling helplessly.

“I’m carrying you inside.” Armie strode down the hall towards the door. “It seems appropriate, considering.”

“What if _I_ wanted to carry _you_?” Timmy said.

Armie snorted. “You can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m six and half feet of muscle, and you’re...not.”

“Hey,” Timmy protested. “I have muscles.”

“You’re also a little drunk,” Armie said.

“That’s...true,” said Timmy. He giggled again. “I’m sorry. The champagne was good and people kept toasting.”

Armie ducked his head and kissed him. Timmy felt himself melting even further at the feel of Armie’s lips sliding against his, the sensation of Armie’s tongue tangling with his, the heat of Armie’s breath mixing with his. He cupped his palm on Armie’s cheek, feeling the faint stubble, and traced the edge of his jaw with gentle fingertips.

It never ceased to amaze him that, an entire year after this thing between them had begun, every kiss felt as significant as that first stolen moment in his childhood bedroom eleven years ago.

“I’m glad you had fun,” Armie murmured into his mouth. “Now. My hands are busy. Could you punch in the code? And make it snappy. You’re not heavy, but you’re not light, either.”

Timmy rolled his eyes and complied with the request. Once inside the apartment, Armie didn’t put Timmy down, like he had expected. Instead, he kicked the door closed behind them and continued through the living space. Timmy smiled, assuming they were headed for the bedroom, but then Armie veered towards the kitchen.

“Where are we going?” Timmy asked. “You’re not taking me to bed?”

“Not just yet,” said Armie, turning around and using his back to open the kitchen door. “I want you sober first.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t want tonight’s sex to be drunk sex,” said Armie.

Timmy blinked up at him. “Drunk sex is fun.”

“Tim.” Now it was Armie’s turn to roll his eyes. “It’s our wedding night. I would like you to fucking remember it.”

The blush that flooded Timmy’s face and neck at Armie’s comment was less from embarrassment and more from pleasure and excitement, and Armie must have been able to tell, because he grinned and kissed Timmy’s nose.

Then he unceremoniously dumped Timmy onto a kitchen stool.

“Sit there,” he said. “Don’t move. I’ll make coffee.”

Timmy huffed out a breath. “Bossy,” he said.

“Sorry,” said Armie. “Sit there, darling, and let me make you some coffee to clear your head. I’m afraid if you move you’ll trip and I don’t really want our night to end in the emergency room with me playing the dutiful, distant Helper instead of the panicked husband.”

_Husband_.

Timmy could hardly believe it had happened. Under a sea of hanging lights in his parents’ backyard that evening, he had publicly pledged himself to the person he had always known was meant for him.

It had been pretty nearly perfect.

First of all, it was exactly the wedding he had dreamed about. Small, intimate, with only the people he really loved there to share the moment. Including both of his parents.

He was grateful that his mother had finally decided to tell his father the truth, and that his father now knew everything. Papa, for his part, had reacted differently than anyone had expected. Instead of being betrayed that his wife had lied to him for decades, instead of denying the truth because to accept it would dismantle his entire belief system, he had unquestioningly accepted what she had told him and been horrified on her behalf. On Vanda’s. On Armie’s. He had wanted to storm Washington and tear down the system with his own two hands, and when he realized he couldn’t do that, he had driven straight to Manhattan and banged on Timmy’s door.

With a look that was a mix between murderous rage and immense pain, he had grabbed Armie’s face between his hands and begged his forgiveness.

It took Armie and Timmy a minute to figure out what was going on, but when they did, the relief Timmy felt was intense and overwhelming. His father had always been a beacon for him, a model, and it had been difficult to keep his mother’s secret from the man he had always looked up to.

And the way he supported their relationship was its own source of relief. Timmy didn’t think he could have stood to have had a wedding with Papa not there. He would have done it, but it wouldn’t have been the same.

He had ultimately forgiven his mother, as well. For a while, he held fast to his hurt and betrayal, his outrage over what Armie had suffered because of his mother’s silence. But in the end, it was Armie’s cool, calm understanding that wore him down.

So, with his parents and their most trusted friends as witnesses, he and Armie were officially intertwined.

Now, his _husband_ was making him coffee, his ass looking particularly fine in his tuxedo trousers.

It was pretty nearly perfect, except for the fact that it wasn’t really _official_ official. On paper, Armie was still a Helper, after all, and Helpers weren’t allowed to get married. It was their alternate identities, the ones Luca had procured for them in case they needed to disappear... _those_ identities were officially husband and husband.

But someday, if what they were doing worked, someday it wouldn’t just be Elio Perlman and Oliver Hammer who would be married in the eyes of the law. Someday they could wear their wedding rings in public. Someday.

Which reminded him…

He waited until Armie had prepared both cups of coffee and was seated next to him at the island, their elbows barely touching as they sipped from their steaming mugs.

“I have news,” Timmy said, making his voice as casual as possible.

Armie glanced over and smirked. “Is it that you married me tonight? Because I was there.”

“No, it’s —“

“Is it that you love me?” Armie wiggled an eyebrow.

“That’s not news,” Timmy grumbled. “Would you let me tell you?”

Armie smiled and ruffled Timmy’s hair. “Sorry, baby. Tell me your news.”

Timmy blew out a breath and continued.  Now that he actually was sobering up, he was remembering how excited he had been to share this with Armie in the first place, and how hard it had initially been to keep quiet.

“I didn’t want to say anything earlier because it might have distracted you. And it would _definitely_ have distracted Luca,” he explained. “He would have put the wedding on hold or something so we could set up a strategy meeting in the middle of my parents’ living room.”

Timmy grinned at the thought, imagining Luca commandeering the library and ordering the caterers to supply coffee. The leader of the Helper Resistance was nothing if not dedicated to the cause.

When Armie and Timmy had made their choice to stay and take up the fight to dismantle the Helper system, Luca Guadagnino had been their first call. After some hoop-jumping and vetting — Timmy was pretty sure Luca had had them followed and maybe even tapped their phones somehow — he had arranged a meeting. In a short time, he had helped them set up the necessary protective layers at the Helper clinic, provided them with rock solid false identities and an escape plan, and they had worked out the best way they could be of help to the resistance.

Since then, they had been embroiled in levels of intrigue Timmy had only seen before in movies and spy novels. He could still hardly believe that this was his life. That he was spying on his clients, making secret records of the transactions of the companies he had been able to identify as part of the funding of the Helper system, like _Childress Group_. From there, thanks to Armie’s research and language skills — and Saoirse’s hacking — they had already identified one organization that was responsible for procuring unwanted children to be funneled into the Helper system. In addition, Timmy was working his way into the highest, most exclusive social circles in New York, securing invitations to events with his Helper as his attendant, and this was giving them both access to powerful people.

And now...something big was happening. Their hard — and dangerous — work was paying off.

Armie poked his side. “Don’t leave me in suspense,” he said. “Stop imagining Luca spreading out schematics of the Pentagon on your dad’s desk in his study and tell me what you’ve been keeping to yourself.”

At the reminder that Armie knew him almost better than he knew himself, Timmy leaned up against him, dropping his head onto Armie’s shoulder and rolling it side to side.

“I got a call today,” he said. He picked his head up and glanced at Armie, then carefully focused on his mug. He took a sip, and, with his mouth still hovering on the rim, continued, “from Congressman Mescudi.”

Beside him, Armie went still. Out of the corner of his eye, Tim saw Armie set his mug on the counter.

“What did he want?” Armie asked.

Timmy shrugged. “Oh, something about us coming over for dinner next week.”

The silence stretched out for one, two, three seconds. Then Armie spoke up again, with the question Timmy had known he would ask.

“Us? Did he refer to me specifically?”

Timmy set his own mug down and turned to face Armie. He wanted to see Armie’s face when he revealed this news.

“He said, I quote, ‘I’d like nothing more than to have you and Armie for dinner with Michelle and I next week.’”

Timmy wasn’t disappointed. Armie’s jaw dropped, his blue eyes widened, and then, slowly, he smiled. Timmy was sure he would never be tired of seeing that happiness spread across Armie’s beautiful features.

“By _name,_ ” he murmured. “He used my name.”

“Not only that,” Timmy said, bouncing a little on his stool, “he—“

“Referenced his own Helper. Included her in the dinner.” Armie’s gaze turned razor sharp. “Do you think we’re actually right about him? That he’s in love with her?”

Timmy nodded. “I do. Before, I was about eighty percent sure, but I’m positive now.”

Armie shook his head in wonder. “Timmy, do you realize what this could mean? If he knew the truth, was on our side? Mescudi is…”

“He’s got power,” Timmy acknowledged. “I know. It’s huge.”

“Are you ready for this? Because it could go either way, you know. It’s likely to get more dangerous for you before it gets better.” Armie shifted so he was fully facing Timmy.

Timmy took Armie’s hands, letting his thumb brush across the shiny platinum ring on Armie’s left hand.

“Someday, we’ll do this all over again,” he said, his voice firm and sure. It reflected how he was feeling.

Despite moments of uncertainty and years of utter hopelessness, all of that was gone now. What was left instead was confidence. Confidence that no matter what life threw at them, they could handle it. No matter what they had to do, they could do it. No matter how hard things got, they still had each other.

“We sure as hell will,” said Armie, his voice as steady as Timmy’s had been. “I’ll marry you as many times as you’ll let me.”

As Armie leaned in for another kiss that felt like the first, their simple vows, spoken earlier in voices thick with emotion, echoed in Timmy’s head:

_I promise to love you and protect you, to be honest and true, to provide aid and comfort all the days of our lives._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm onlyastoryteller on Tumblr.


End file.
